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A 

LORD’S 

COURTSHIP 




















































































































































































































































































































Rhett and Clara walked to the railing. 




A L O R D’S 
COURTSHIP 


A NOVEL 

/ BY 

LEE M E R I WETH E R 
XT 

ILLUSTRATED 



CHICAGO 

LAIRD dr* LEE, PUBLISHERS 


1 







TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 


LJbr&ry of Cofigret?* 
Office o f the 

APR 2 5 1900 

h'eglster cf Copyright* 



57603 

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year nineteen hundred, 

BY 

WILLIAM H. LEE, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 

(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.) 


, 1 
% 


ScCJND COPY, 

a /. fey / 

tsfyU Jf, /foe 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Bartons of Talledega. 7 

II Lord Asquith Apohaqui.12 

III Mr. Rhett Calhoun of Alabama .... 18 

IV Lord Apohaqui meets the Bartons ... 31 

V Lord Apohaqui meets Mr. Rhett Calhoun . 45 

VI Mr. Green Gassaway of Louisiana ... 49 

VII Lord Apohaqui meets the Author of the 

G. A. N.60 

VIII Mr. Blower’s Prodigies.68 

IX Lady Apohaqui calls on the Bartons . 81 

X Lord Bunger of Wendham Castle ... 92 

XI Lord Bunger’s Castle.105 

XII Lord Bunger Proposes.118 

XIII Mr. Gassaway’s Burglar.136 

•XIV The Bartons dine in Great Barrington 

Square.141 

XV Lord Bunger is Exposed.149 

XVI From Palace to Prison.159 

XVII Lord Apohaqui and Grace Barton go Shop¬ 
ping . .164 

XVIII Grace Barton’s Trial.176 

XIX Lady Apohaqui Disapproves of the Bartons 193 

XX A Comedy in Tyrol.206 

XXI Count Volpi Proposes.222 

XXII The Flight to Siena.238 

XXIII Mr. Wookey’s Social Ambition .... 244 

XXIV Count Volpi’s Coup d’etat ..... 253 

XXV At Midnight in San Quirico.265 

XXVI Lord Apohaqui Proposes.274 

XXVII Conclusion.283 




















A LORD’S COURTSHIP. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BARTONS OF TALLEDEGA. 

It was ten minutes after midnight when Miss Grace 
Barton returned from Mrs. Huntington Brown's musi- 
cale and announced her intention of taking the family 
abroad. Even under the most favorable circumstances 
such an announcement would have disturbed Mrs. Bal- 
lington Barton’s nerves. Coming in the middle of the 
night when suddenly awakened from profound slumber, 
she was almost dazed. Pulling herself up so that she 
sat rather than lay in bed, Mrs. Barton stared at her 
daughter. 

“Going to Europe?” she ejaculated. 

“That’s the plan, mamma. We must hurry and be 
ready by the first of May.” 

“Did you say Europe?” Like most persons who have 
never left their own firesides, Mrs. Barton fancied that 
Europe was at the end of the earth. 

“Yes, mamma. That is just what I said.” 

“Grace,” solemnly, “what do you mean?” 

“Exactly what I said, mamma. Clara and I have 
talked it all over. We must start by the first of May.” 

“We couldn’t keep it until morning,” burst out Miss 
Clara, excitedly. “We wanted you to know right away. 
We have ever so many things to buy, traveling gowns 
to make, trunks to see after, and—and—lots of things.” 

“Oh, dear!” sighed Mrs. Barton, fully awake now to 
the purpose of her daughters, “what an awful bother 
it will be. Please don’t!” 

“Mamma, we must go,” said Grace firmly. “We have 
(?) 


8 


THE BARTONS OF TALLEDEGA 


looked the question all over and feel that we must go. 
There’s Clara’s voice-” 

“Voice? What on earth has Clara’s voice to' do with 
the matter?” 

“Everything, mamma. It must be cultivated. Don’t 
you know Clara’s voice will equal Patti’s when it is 
laised up to D? It must be raised up to D, and that 
is why we are going to Europe, to Milan. Signore 
Tomaso says it is the only sensible thing to do.” 

“Signore Tomaso?” repeated Mrs. Barton, with mild 
scorn. “Grace, don’t tell me what that jerky little Ital¬ 
ian says.” 

“Signore Tomaso is a genius, mamma,” insisted Grace. 
“He is an authority on musical matters, and says that 
Clara’s voice must be cultivated up to D.” 

“What is to become of your poor mother while Clara’s 
voice is being dragged up to D?” tearfully demanded 
Mrs. Barton. 

“Mamma, did you think we would go without you? 
No, indeed, and that brings me to the other reasons 
why we must go to Europe. While Clara is cultivating 
her voice, you and I will see the sights—the wonderful 
pictures and palaces and churches. I know you will 
enjoy them. I’ll take you everywhere. I will be your 
guide, and pay all the bills and look after things—oh, 
you will have a lovely time!” 

Mrs. Barton made one last effort for peace and quiet 
in her own home: “Go to bed, girls—go to sleep and 
let Europe alone. I wouldn’t live in Europe if they 
gave me a gold crown to wear. I don’t like kings and 
queens.” 

“Mamma,” said Grace, earnestly, “we don’t like kings 
or queens any more than you do, and we both promise 
we won’t wear golden crowns—no, not if the people 
get on their knees and beg us to. But we are going 
to Europe, mamma, and you are going, too.” 

Grace Barton had features like her mother’s but there 
the resemblance ended. Grace was lithe and slender, 
while Mrs. Barton was plump almost to the point of 



THE BARTONS OF TALLEDEGA 


9 


pudginess. The daughter was as firm and self-reliant as 
the mother was soft and yielding. Mrs. Barton, although 
still on the sunny side of forty and a rather handsome 
woman, seemed to dread locomotion; her idea of perfect 
felicity was repose. She was never so> happy as when 
reclining on her couch reading a novel; since the death 
of her husband, Colonel Alpheus Barton, five years be¬ 
fore the opening of this story, Grace had been practically 
the head of the family. 

At the time of Col. Barton’s death their home was 
in Talledega, Alabama. When the Colonel’s simple 
affairs were wound up, Grace came to the conclusion 
that it would be better for the family to move to Bir¬ 
mingham. 

“We can never do anything in Talledega,” she said. 
“Let us sell our land and invest in Birmingham lots. 
People say there is a big boom in Birmingham. There 
are coal and iron mines there. We will find something. 
What is the good of staying here like the cabbage in 
our garden?” 

Mrs. Barton sighed softly. Although, she inwardly 
shrunk from her daughter’s plans, she had not the 
energy vigorously to oppose them. Grace, as energet¬ 
ic as her mother was languid, had her own way; energy 
always rules in this world. The farm near Talledega 
was sold and the proceeds invested in land in and around 
Birmingham. In less than a year Mrs. Barton’s $40,000 
had quadrupled. This money, together with $90,000 
left the two girls by their great-uncle, a Louisiana 
sugar planter, was reinvested in Birmingham coal and 
iron mines, and resulted, within a year, in making the 
Bartons worth more than a million. The Barton family 
and the Bartons’ friends gave Grace the credit for all 
the grand financial success; it had the effect of making 
the young woman a little imperious, and her mother 
and sister even more yielding. The first thing Grace 
thought necessary, after their financial affairs were in 
a satisfactory condition, was to take herself and sister 
to New York and enter as pupils in Mrs. Finisher’s 


10 


THE BARTONS OF TALLEDEGA 


celebrated Institute. Many mothers in the United States 
religiously believe that only by undergoing the polish¬ 
ing process to which girls in Mrs. Finisher’s Institute 
are subjected, can their daughters be made really fit to 
enter high society. Mrs. Barton by no means shared 
this common opinion; on the contrary, she believed 
that the educational facilities of the South far surpassed 
those of the North. But Grace insisted on a course 
at Mrs. Finisher’s, and so, with the spirit of mild martyr¬ 
dom, Mrs. Barton accompanied her daughters to New 
York, notwithstanding she disliked the North as a whole, 
and New York City especially. Its rush and roar and 
elevated road were a horror to her; but she endured 
all this for the sake of her girls, and when their school¬ 
ing was over, she was happy to get back to Birmingham. 
And now, after hardly a year’s peace and quiet, this 
dreadful European trip was sprung upon her. She felt 
that it was very hard, but it did not occur to her to 
restrain the more adventurous spirit of her daughters. 
Thus it was that the three Barton ladies were again 
in New York and again at the Finisher Institute; this 
time as boarders during the ten days that remained be¬ 
fore the date fixed for the departure of their steamer. 

Among their former classmates whom the girls found 
at the Institute was a Miss Marina Caro-11, who believed 
that in all the world there was no such piece of mascu¬ 
line perfection as her brother Louis, and who two years 
before had constantly sung his praises to Clara Barton, 
at that time her particular chum. She sang them so 
well that the Southern girl had become interested. Then, 
when Miss Caroll went to her home in Georgia for the 
holidays and enthusiastically described Clara Barton to 
her brother, that bold young man wrote a letter to his 
sister’s friend. The letter was answered and after a 
while Caroll sent his photograph. Other letters passed 
between them, but the two young people did not meet, 
and when Clara returned tO' Alabama the correspondence 
ended. 

“Louis is in Europe now,” said Marina. “Maybe you 


THE BARTONS OF TALLEDEGA 


11 


will run across him over there. He is painting pictures 
in Rome. Everybody says he is a great artist.” 

Clara’s face colored ,at the recollection of her school 
girl romance with this man whom she had never seen 
and who was winning fame in both Europe and America. 
“I hope, for your sake, Marina, he will come back cov¬ 
ered with glory.” 

, “For my sake, Clara? Don’t you hope it for his sake, 
and for yours? You know I have sworn to make a match 
between you and Louis.” 

‘‘Hush! We are too old now for such nonsense!” 

“It isn’t nonsense for Louis to marry a girl like you! 
nor nonsense for you to marry as grand and good a 
man as my dear brother! I mean to write to him this 
very night and have him propose as soon as you get 
to Italy.” 

Of course this was school girl banter; nevertheless, 
Miss Caroll did write to her brother; and the reader who 
follows this chronicle to the end will learn how, in due 
time, Mr. Louis Caroll set forth to pay his respects to 
his sister’s friend whom he had never met. 

On the ninth day of their stay at Mrs. Finisher’s, the 
Bartons were joined by Miss Agnes Allan, a thin, sedate 
young woman who wore glasses and spoke both Ger¬ 
man and Italian. Miss Allan was the daughter of Mrs. 
Barton’s dressmaker in Birmingham and was to accom¬ 
pany the party in the capacity of companion and general 
assistant. 

The day after Miss Allan’s arrival in New York, the 
travelers, accompanied by a liberal escort from the 
Finisher Institute, went down to the Clarkson street 
dock to board the Etruria, on which staunch steamer 
their journey was to begin; but before relating the haps 
and mishaps that occurred on that memorable voyage, 
the reader must be introduced to a personage destined 
to play a more or less prominent part in this narrative. 


CHAPTER II. 

LORD ASQUITH APOHAQUI. 

Of the many fashionable Clubs that line Piccadilly be¬ 
tween Albert Memorial and Trafalgar Square, none sur¬ 
pass the Victoria either in the elegance of its equipment, 
or in the number and rank of its members. On a certain 
April afternoon, when the Victoria’s windows were oc¬ 
cupied by members of that class of civilized society which 
never works, never produces, yet consumes the best the 
world affords, one of the loungers in the Club’s luxuri¬ 
ous leather arm chairs seemed more absorbed in his 
own thoughts than in the passing crowd. This was not 
because this lounger’s thoughts were more pleasant than 
Piccadilly’s afternoon show; on the contrary, Lord 
Apohaqui’s thoughts were of a decidedly unpleasant 
character. Lord Apohaqui (Charles Asquith, Baron 
Apohaqui in the peerage of Great Britain) had reached 
a point where thinking, pleasant or unpleasant, was a 
stern necessity. Numerous bills had been thrust upon 
him that very morning—tailors’, harberdashers’ and 
other vulgar tradesmen’s bills. He had succeeded in 
putting them off, but it had not been done without 
difficulty, and it was only too apparent that his social 
ruin was postponed—not averted. The vulgar trades¬ 
men would continue their persecution, and, worst or all, 
his club fees would soon be due. Any man may owe 
his tailor, but what gentleman will owe his club? When 
Lord Apohaqui found his bank account reduced to> abso¬ 
lute zero, and no funds with which to settle his club 
indebtedness, he realized the necessity for prompt action. 

He was now at the Victoria Club awaiting the com¬ 
ing of Mr. Alonzo Wookey. The appointment had been 
for four o’clock; it was now nearly five and Lord Apo¬ 
haqui’s brow was dark and gloomy. Was it possible 
( 12 ) 


LORD ASQUITH APOHAQUI 


13 

i 

that Wookey suspected the reason of his invitation? And 
did he, of all men, mean to fail him in this, his hour 
of necessity? It was Lord Apohaqui who had “put up” 
Mr. Wookey’s name for membership in the Victoria and 
made him acquainted with his aristocratic friends, many 
of whom treated the son of England’s great vinegar 
manufacturer with more or less cordiality according to 
the state of their finances. Mr. Wookey’s perceptions 
were not as sharp as was his father’s vinegar. He did 
not know that he was merely tolerated, not genuinely 
admitted to good fellowship among the Victoria’s mem¬ 
bers, that he was tolerated only because of his willing¬ 
ness to accommodate with financial loans the young 
scions of Britain’s nobility. 

Many a man has bought a seat in the House of Lords, 
just as many a man has bought a seat in the American 
Senate. Alonzo Wookey had read what was written 
about Lord Chandler and the Marquis of Bootsdale, 
both of which noblemen began life in humble circum¬ 
stances and yet had raised themselves to the peerage 
through the powerful lever of gold. 

If Mr. Wookey did not set his heart on being a peer 
of England, at any rate he was resolved to enter aristoc¬ 
racy’s charmed circle; and in this ambition he was 
seconded, heart and soul, by his father, old Peter 
Wookey, who owned the biggest vinegar factory “in the 
world” and counted his wealth by millions. 

Lord Apohaqui was already deeply indebted to Mr. 
Wookey, and when the latter failed to appear at the ap¬ 
pointed hour, the young nobleman not unnaturally began 
to fear that the man of vinegar meant to escape him. 
But the Lord underestimated the power of snobbism. 
If further loans were necessary in order to cement his 
“friendship” with members of the aristocracy, Mr. 
Wookey was willing to invest much more than he had 
hitherto invested; his nonappearance at four o’clock 
was due to accident, not design; this he explained with 
many apologies when at length he did arrive, about 
five, just as Lord Apohaqui was on the point of leaving 


14 


LORD ASQUITH APOHAQUI 


the Victoria. The young Baron accepted Wookey s 
apologies, then without circumlocution, stated his pur¬ 
pose in requesting the interview—he wanted the loan of 
£2,000. Accustomed as Mr. Wookey was to such re¬ 
quests his breath stopped short for a moment. £2,000 
is not a trifling amount even to a vinegar king’s son; 
moreover Mr. Wookey already held Lord Apohaqui’s 
I. O. U.s for a large sum. 

“I say, my lord, you don’t mean it?” Mr. Wookey 
managed at last to gasp. 

“But I do mean it, Wookey,” returned Lord Apoha- 
qui, “and you won’t hesitate to lend it unless you wish 
to throw away what I already owe you.” 

Mr. Wookey did not understand the force of this 
reasoning: it seemed to him this new loan would simply 
mean a new loss. 

“You don’t look at it in the right light,” urged the 
peer. “I owe you ever so much, and half a dozen fellows 
are even worse off with me than you are. As things stand, 
none of you will ever see your money again. Falmouth 
is going to pieces, so is Apohaqui, and I’ve been to the 
Jews until they won’t lend another shilling. If you 
will help me out now, it will be for the last time, for 
it will put me in the way of settling all the old scores.” 

“That’s all very fair, Lord Apohaqui, but how the 
deuce do you expect to manage it?” 

“By marrying!” 

“Who is the lady?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Mr. Wookey’s eyes opened wide: “Nobody in sight 
at all?” he said. Then Lord Apohaqui explained. Eng- 
lish girls who were at once rich and beautiful were, of 
course, uncommon, but not so in America. 

“Americans are daft about titles, Wookey, I shall be 
able to get a beauty as well as an heiress.” 

Lord Apohaqui, who was a tall, well made young 
Englishman, with a fine head, soft brown hair, a fresh, 
clear complexion and patrician features, was what most 
women would call decidedly handsome, and what all 


LORD ASQUITH APOHAQUI 


15 


men would be obliged to own decidedly distinguished. 
Mr. Wookey could not but confess that such a man, 
with such a title—one of the oldest in England—ought 
to be able to take his pick of American heiresses. As 
for Lord Apohaqui, it is due him to say that he laid 
no particular store upon his personal appearance, but 
he was very proud of his name and his rank, and was 
determined that money alone should not buy him; the 
lady must also possess good breeding, good looks and 
amiability. 

“By Jove, you’ve got the right kind of pluck!” ex¬ 
claimed Mr. Wookey, when the nobleman’s plan was 
fully explained. “And hang it, if I don’t see you 
through.” 

“I knew you would,” returned Lord Apohaqui with • 
an infectious smile; he could be gracious and winning 
when he cared to be. Ringing a bell, a blank check 
was ordered and, five minutes later, Lord Apohaqui 
buttoned within his well-fitting Prince Albert coat Mr. 
Alonzo Wookey’s check for £2,000. The matter of the 
check being disposed of, Mr. Wookey asked his noble 
friend to intercede for him with a certain Lady Daron 
who was about to give a dinner party. Wookey felt 
certain that Lord Apohaqui could induce Lady Daron 
to send him an invitation; and if his Lordship ever meant 
to befriend him surely he ought to do so now. 

“I’d be delighted, only I shan’t have time. I’m off 
for New York to-morrow,” said the young nobleman, 
inwardly determining to go to purgatory before he would 
help any vinegar seller’s son break into the exclusive 
circles of his feminine acquaintances. 

As a man of fashion, a club lounger, a pleasure seeker, 

I fear something also of a roue , Lord Apohaqui seldom 
had occasion to engage in anything so plebeian as mental 
or physical labor. Nevertheless, he had ability and, if 
spurred, was capable of energetic action. Recogniz¬ 
ing on the present occasion the necessity for the prompt¬ 
est sort of a move, when he arrived in New York he 
pursued his plans with a boldness that would have aston- 


16 


LORD ASQUITH APOHAQUI 


ished his aristocratic friends in London. The young 
lord was not insensible to the delights of a season at 
Newport or Saratoga, but he realized that his borrowed 
capital might easily become exhausted before such a 
campaign could be brought to a successful conclusion. 
And in this emergency he adopted a*plan that was al¬ 
most an inspiration; he would engage passage on some 
steamer on which a suitable heiress was to sail for 
Europe! The ocean ferries are frequently used by those 
who gamble with cards; why not also by one who would 
gamble in hearts? What place affords better opportunity 
to become acquainted—better opportunity for moonlight 
promenades, for sentimental tete-a-tetes than the deck 
of an Atlantic steamer? Six months at Newport would 
not achieve what a single voyage might easily accom¬ 
plish; and six months at Newport would bankrupt him, 
while the voyage would leave enough of his £2,000 to 
make the display which would need be made by a noble¬ 
man acting the role of a “grand seigneur”. 

The finding of a suitable party proved somewhat easier 
than might have been expected. A little diplomacy and 
the employment of a shrewd agent elicited from the 
steamship company a list of passengers as far as they 
had been booked for the summer, together with hints 
as to the financial standing of the prospective travelers. 
There was no lack of heiresses—it is not the poor who 
go to Europe—but it required some weeks’ correspon¬ 
dence and several trips of his confidential agent before 
there was found the requisite combination of youth, 
beauty and money. When Mr. Joseph Sharp, of Sharp’s 
Detective Agency, returned from Birmingham, Alabama, 
he informed Lord Apohaqui that there was no necessity 
for further investigation. 

“I never saw anything like her, my lord—beautiful is 
no word for it—she’s lovely and bright and has a regular 
gold mine in the shape of iron mines and iron mills.” 

“By what steamer does she sail?” 

. By the Etruria—-the same vessel in which your lord- 
ship came to America; there’s another heiress going on 

























































LORD ASQUITH APOHAQUI 


17 


the Etruria, a Chicago lady. If your lordship doesn’t 
fancy the Birmingham lady the one from Chicago may 
please you. I have seen both ladies and I believe your 
lordship will admit they are as handsome as could be 
desired.” 

Through the services of Mr. Sharp all was done that 
could be done to make sure of the financial standing 
and general “availability” of the Etruria passengers. 
This investigation was made very quietly by the discreet 
Mr. Sharp, nevertheless some months later the fact of 
its having been made accidentally came to the knowledge 
of Col. Henry Moreton, of Alabama. Col. Moreton, an 
old army friend of the late Col. Alpheus Barton, prompt¬ 
ly wrote diis late friend’s widow a full account of Mr. 
Joseph Sharp’s investigations. What was the effect of 
Col. Moreton’s letter will be seen in a subsequent 
chapter. 


CHAPTER III. 

MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA. 

On the day the Etruria sailed, Lord Apohaqui went 
down to the Clarkson street dock about noon and his 
valet William, after arranging his master comfortably 
on the hurricane deck, went off to find the table steward. 
“I say, steward,” asked William with a solemn air, “have 
you got two young ladies by the name of Barton booked 
for this steamer?” 

The table steward ran his eye down the ship’s list, 
and stopped at the Bs, “Yes. Here they are. Mrs. 
Barton and daughters. What of ’em?” 

“Just this,” said William. “My master, Lord Apoha¬ 
qui, would like to sit betwixt and between them young 
ladies by the name of Barton; or if that ain’t easy to 
fix, then between two ladies by the name of Packer.” 

“Betwixt and between?” said the table steward. “I 
cawn’t do that, you know. It won’t do to separate a 
family, don’t you know?” 

“No, I don’t know,” replied William, slipping a sover¬ 
eign into the steward’s hand. “This’ll make it easy and 
if you keep quiet and work smooth there’s more where 
this came from. His lordship wants a seat alongside 
the young ladies.” 

“My heyes!” muttered the steward, who was a genuine 
cockney with a cockney’s reverence for aristocracy, “my 
heyes, your master’s a lord is he?” 

“That’s what he is,” said William, “and there aint a 
bigger one in all England.” 

Foreseeing fat fees, the table steward made the de¬ 
sired arrangements as to seats and instructed his sub¬ 
ordinates to keep a lookout for the ladies of cabin num¬ 
ber 93. When the Bartons arrived one of the cabin 
boys who took their parcels to their stateroom conveyed 
( 18 ) 


MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 


19 


to the table steward the information that “Number 93 
had come,” whereupon the table steward told William, 
who in turn told Lord Apohaqui. 

“What do they look like?” asked the lord, trying to 
read in William’s face his opinion of the girls, one of 
whom he thought he might marry—that is, in case he 
found he did not prefer the Chicago heiress. But 
William’s face was inscrutable. “It is impossible to say, 
m’lud,” he replied gravely. “There are so many of 
them.” 

“So many?” repeated Lord Apohaqui, dropping a 
little of his elegant indifference. “I thought there were 
only two.” 

“Nearer a dozen, m’lud.” 

“A dozen? Does that fool Sharp want to tumble me 
into long division?” 

Lord Apohaqui raised himself up in his steamer chair 
and gazed at the approaching throng from the Finisher 
Institute. 

A few paces behind the girls followed Miss Primm, 
one of the Institute’s teachers, who piously kept her 
charges in sight notwithstanding they led her a race up 
and down the steps, along the decks, into the saloons 
and to every other portion of the vessel to which people 
were permitted access. They even wanted to inspect 
the hold and the engine rooms, but here Miss Primm 
drew the line. “Young ladies,” she said severely—she 
was out of breath and fairly ached all over from so much 
unaccustomed climbing—“Young ladies, a little more 
quiet dignity would better become your years and sta¬ 
tion. Remember, you represent the Finisher Institute.” 

“Girls,” cried Miss Grace Barton, “we have behaved 
shamefully to dear Miss Primm—and she was so kind 
and good to come with us. Please excuse us, Miss 
Primm. We will be quiet as lambs. Won’t you sit down 
and rest? I will get you a chair.” Darting towards 
the nearest vacant chair—the one as it happened next 
that occupied by Lord Apohaqui,—she laid hands upon 
it. “May I?” she asked, flashing one glance at the young 


20 MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 

Englishman. Lord Apohaqui’s monocle dropped from 
his eye as if it had been struck. Taking silence for 
assent, Grace dragged the chair forward and pushed Miss 
Primm down into it. “Now you are comfortable,” she 
said, “and we promise to give no more trouble. Girls, 
we have seen enough of the ship. We must behave 
now. We make Miss Primm nervous.” 

“Ah—ahem!” muttered Lord Apohaqui, replacing the 
monocle in his eye and staring at Grace, whose eyes 
were fixed on the people surging about on the deck 
below. 

“A pretty girl—deuced pretty for an American. I 
wonder if she is the one?” He thought he had seldom 
seen a more attractive looking maiden than Grace ap¬ 
peared in he/ gray serge traveling dress. On her head 
was a small sailor hat; she wore a gray jacket with 
pockets; her gray-gloved hands were small and shapely. 

“A lady’s hand,” muttered the critical lord, “not a 
plebeian’s.” Her hair was dark brown, eyes ditto, her 
nose was straight and well-shaped, her cheeks, with a 
complexion as soft and sweet as that of a new-blown 
rose—such was the outward presentment of the young 
woman who, Lord Apohaqui hoped, might be the one 
he intended should become his wife. 

While the party from the Finisher Institute were chat¬ 
ting and looking at the crowd surging about on the 
dock, and while Lord Apohaqui was observing them 
from his steamer chair, a second party climbed up the 
gang-plank and stood within a short distance of the 
spot where Miss Primm and her charges were seated. 
One of this second party was a well-grown, handsome 
girl with a fresh face, highly colored. Her cloak was 
of Russian sable, her gown of fine material, richly em¬ 
broidered. Her two companions were also women, one 
evidently her maid, the other as evidently her mother. 
Mother and daughter strongly resembled each other, al¬ 
though the former was much stouter and her face was 
fuller and more florid. Both were very blonde and both 
had abundant coils of yellow hair. As this party ap- 


MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 


21 


proached an exclamation struck the ears of all present. 

“It is a shame! A sin!” exclaimed the girl in gray 
serge. 

“What is a shame? What do you see?” asked the 
girl by her side. 

“That little man! That enormous trunk on his 
shoulder! It will break his back. If I ever go to Con¬ 
gress I’ll get a law passed to cut down the size of 
trunks.” 

The woman with the sable cloak turned and glared 
at the girl in serge. 

“See! The poor fellow staggers under the load,” 
cried Grace, not seeing the disapproving glare of the 
portly wearer of the sable cloak. 

“He need not carry such loads if he doesn’t want to,” 
calmly remarked one of her companions. “He isn’t a 
slave. Nobody makes him do it.” 

“Necessity makes him,” replied Grace. “I have been 
reading Henry George. Poverty is the hardest master 
in the world and makes men do that which injures them 
body and soul.” 

“Oh, come, Grace!” said one of the girls. “Don’t 
mount your high horse! We can’t keep up with you if 
you gallop so fast!” 

“There! He is down!” cried Grace, not noticing her 
companion’s remark. “I thought he would fall under 
that dreadful burden. I am afraid his back is broken.” 

“No, but the trunk is. It has burst wide open. Look 
at the fine things tumbling out in the dirt.” 

“I am glad of it! I hope they will be ruined. Maybe 
that will teach their owner not to travel with trunks 
that kill porters.” 

The accident to the trunk greatly agitated the portly 
lady in Russian sables. Ordering her maid to fly to the 
scene of disaster and pick up the scattered things, she 
darted an angry glance at the girl in gray—then turn¬ 
ing to her daughter, she entered into a low but animated 
conversation. The Finisher girls watched the maid pick 
up her mistress’ finery; she replaced it in the trunk and 


22 MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 

employed two porters to bear the huge thing aboard 
the steamer. Soon after came the cry: “All ashore 
who are going!” Whereupon there was much hurrying 
and scurrying about the decks, and up and down the 
gang-steps. When the last kisses were given and the 
last good-byes said, the Finisher girls followed Miss 
Primm back to the dock, where they remained, waving 
handkerchiefs until the Etruria was well out in the Hud¬ 
son. Then the Bartons retreated to their stateroom. 

“Ma, did you notice that bold, impudent thing in 
gray?” asked the well-grown young woman whose heavy 
Russian sables made her look much larger than she was. 

“Notice her? I should say I did. They can’t amount 
to much. You can see that from her dress, Lobelia. I 
don’t suppose that gray serge cost more than a dollar 
a yard, and that gray jacket would be dear at ten dollars. 
Imagine a girl going to Europe in a ten dollar jacket!” 

“I can’t see what poor people want to travel for,” 
replied the blonde daughter. “It’s perfectly absurd. 
People that can’t afford to dress decently oughtn’t to 
go to Europe. Did you notice her hat, ma? A cheap 
straw! Not a bow nor a plume on it. I don’t think 
we ought to notice them.” 

“Certainly not,” said the elder woman, pulling up her 
portly person with a sudden pride. “Ladies that travel 
can’t be too particular who they speak to, Lobelia. 
What’s the use of going to Europe if we don’t shake 
common folks and fall in with the aristocracy? They 
say there’s a real lord on board; we must get acquainted 
with him, Lobelia. I’ve heard there’s no place like a 
ship for young people to get mashed on each other. 
How would you like to be an English lordess?” 

“La, ma! There’s no such word as 'lordess’. If you 
marry a lord you’re called a ‘lady’ not a lordess. Don’t 
forget that.” 

“Well, it’s all the same in the long run. You say 
poet and poetess? Why shouldn’t you say lord and 
lordess?” 


MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 


23 


“Just because it isn’t right, ma,” returned the daughter. 
“Aint that reason enough?” 

“Maybe so, Lobelia, though I don’t see no sense in 
it. But I haven’t had your schooling. They didn’t have 
such chances in my day, and I didn’t have a pa with 
six millions like you’ve got. But you haven’t said how 
you’d like to be a high English lady?” 

“Oh, good gracious, ma! that’s all nonsense,” re¬ 
turned Miss Lobelia.” 

“I don’t see why it’s all nonsense,” said the sober 
practical mother. “I’m sure your pa’s left you a big 
enough pile to catch the biggest lord in England.” 

Lord Apohaqui was screened from the range of the 
ladies’ eyes by the high back of his bamboo chair; more¬ 
over Mrs. Ford Packer and her daughter were looking 
out over the sea, hence had no suspicion that he was 
sitting near them. By raising his head a little and peer¬ 
ing over the back of his chair Lord Apohaqui had a 
full view of both mother and daughter. 

“Plere’s wealth,” muttered the young Englishman as 
he surveyed the generous amplitude of both forms, 
“wealth and willingness, for I dare say all a fellow’s 
got to do is to go in and get her—and, by Jove! the 
girl isn’t bad looking!—But the mother—hideous! That 
girl in gray is the thing if she is the one Sharp said has 
£20,000 a year.” 

Lord Apohaqui was not tne only interested spectator 
of these incidents. A young man of about five and 
twenty, quietly dressed, with the demeanor and face of 
a gentleman, had boarded the Etruria early in the fore¬ 
noon. The coming of the English lord had not disturbed 
his occupation, which consisted, for the time being, in 
leaning on the rail gazing at the busy scene on the 
dock below. But when the party from the Finisher 
Institute started up the ship’s gangway, Mr. Rhett Cal¬ 
houn made a low exclamation and withdrew from view. 

Mr. Calhoun was not a fool—he merely had an incon¬ 
veniently large amount of foolish, awkward pride. Born 
and reared in Talledega, he had been intimate with the 


24 


MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 


Bartons in their days of poverty; now they had become 
wealthy, while he was still in the ranks of the struggling 
ones. Would they meet him as of old? Could he ex¬ 
pect from millionaires the same free and easy companion¬ 
ship he had enjoyed in the days when Mrs. Barton kept 
boarders? His ticket was for the second class cabin; 
theirs, of course, was for the first—probably for the 
finest staterooms in the ship. Would not first class 
passengers disdain to recognize a traveler in the second 
cabin? It was cowardly fear of a possible snub that 
caused Rhett Calhoun to hold back, when he discovered 
that the Bartons were aboard the vessel. 

At the extreme end of the promenade deck of the 
Etruria, cut off from view of the first-class passenger’s 
quarters, is a cosy nook with one bench. Usually this 
bench, the only really pleasant deck space allotted to 
second-class passengers, is filled, so that late comers stroll 
about or, if they wish to recline, select some coil of rope 
whereon to rest themselves. The first two days of the 
voyage were so stormy that most of the Etruria’s pas¬ 
sengers were sea-sick; and during those two days the 
bench had but a single occupant—Miss Grace Barton, 
of Birmingham. The young lady was not traveling 
second-class, but in the course of her explorations her 
eyes lighted on the bench. She had not the slightest 
idea that this place was in the second-class quarters; 
she did not know that she had crossed the line; but, 
when she found herself free from sea-sickness, she en¬ 
sconced herself in that cosy nook and alternately read 
Macaulay’s “England,” or looked out at the big "waves 
as they dashed against the ship and burst into showers 
of foaming spray. 

On the afternoon of the second day, just as Grace 
had taken her seat in her favorite corner, approaching 
footsteps warned her that her solitude was to be invaded. 
A man was coming that way, walking with caution, 
leaning his body this way, then that, in an effort to keep 
from pitching headlong on the deck, for the sea was 
lolling high. At the last moment, just as the difficult 


MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 


25 


journey seemed over, the Etruria gave an extra big 
lurch and this disturber of Grace’s solitude, instead of 
balancing himself slowly and safely into port, found him¬ 
self shot as from a catapult into Grace’s arms—a pro¬ 
ceeding which almost stunned both parties alike. 
The young man picked himself up as quickly as possible. 
“I beg a thousand pardons—” he began, then abruptly 
stopped and blushed tO' the roots of his hair. 

“Good gracious!” cried Grace, “is this Rhett Cal¬ 
houn?” 

“I am Rhett Calhoun,” returned the young man, wish¬ 
ing he could drop through the Etruria’s deck and hide 
in the hold. By this time the ship had steadied a bit 
and Rhett stood on his feet erect and firm, though cov¬ 
ered with confusion. His second-class ticket gave him 
as much pain as though it involved something criminal. 
Rhett was a handsome fellow and the girl’s eyes dwelt 
on him with admiration as well as old-time friendliness. 

“Surely,” said Grace, “you haven’t forgotten me—I 
am Grace Barton. It hasn’t been so> very long since 
we lived on the same street in Talledega. Have I 
changed much?” 

“Not at all. That is—I remember you very well, 
Miss Barton.” 

“I don’t believe you did at first. Mamma and Clara 
will be so glad to see you. We don’t know a single 
soul on board. Why haven’t we met before? I have 
been on deck nearly all the time. Mamma and Clara 
keep to their beds; they can’t stand the rolling as I do.” 

Rhett said he also had been a little sea-sick. 

“And what have you been doing since we left Talle¬ 
dega?” 

Rhett gave an account of himself—he intended to 
practice law and possibly, later on, enter politics. 

“And are you going to run against your uncle Dick 
for Congress?” asked Grace, with a merry look at the 
handsome Southerner. 

Rhett turned uncomfortably red at the question; some¬ 
how it made that second-class ticket look blacker and 


26 MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 

more horrible than ever. When children, he and Grace 
had been sweethearts; at the age of six he had gone to 
Colonel Alpheus Barton and asked leave to marry Grace, 
then four years old. The Colonel demanded to know 
how he meant to support his wife? “I am going to 
run against uncle Dick and go to Congress,” replied 
the youthful suitor. Since then that Congressional am¬ 
bition had been a standing joke in the Barton and 
Calhoun families. This time, Rhett answered going to 
Congress seemed no longer such a big thing to him. 
He had lived in Washington long enough to learn what 
small potatoes Congressmen are. 

“Because nine out of ten potatoes are small,” said 
Grace, “is no reason why the tenth potato may not be 
large. Were I a man I should want to- be the tenth 
potato.” 

“Why do you say, ‘if you were a man?’ Has the 
tenth woman no chance to grow beyond the other nine?” 

“Oh, yes, she might in some directions, but not in a 
political way. You know, we are shut out from politics.” 

“I hope you don’t regret it,” said Rhett, who had 
strong prejudices against ‘Women’s Rights’ principles. 
“If a woman is ambitious she has nobler fields than 
politics open to her; she may take up literature, art, 
science or music.” 

“And which of these nobler fields do you mean to 
invade?” asked Grace, her eyes twinkling with merri¬ 
ment. 

The young Southerner said he had talent for none of 
them; he knew nothing of music, had no turn for science, 
nor genius for literature. 

“Then to distinguish yourself you will find yourself 
obliged to enter the political field?” 

“It looks that way,” was the half rueful answer; “Uncle 
Dick says by the time I am ready to run for Congress 
he will retire.” 

While they were thus merrily chatting, the young man 
was trying to muster enough courage to put a bold face 
on his poverty and to decide how he would act when 


MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 


27 


Grace arose to return to her part of the ship; the first- 
class passengers may enter with impunity the quarters 
of the second-class, but no second-class passenger is 
allowed to cross into the first-class part of the ship. 

“Won’t you come and see mamma and Clara?” asked 
Grace as she arose from her seat. “By this time they 
may be in the ladies’ saloon.” 

“I wish I could go with you,” said Rhett. “But I 
may not.” 

“You may not?” echoed Grace astonished. 

“Yes; I’m traveling second-class, and we are not al¬ 
lowed to cross this line. 

The fact—the awful fact that he was too poor to 
travel first-class was told and the world did not shake, 
nor did the girl appear the least bit shocked. “Well,” 
she laughed, “if you can’t come to us it is lucky we can 
come to you. I’ll bring mamma and Clara to see you 
as soon as they are able tO' get out on deck.” 

“Miss Grace,” said Rhett, feeling quite relieved now 
that his secret was out; “you must not forget that your 
family have risen among the millionaires since we lived 
as neighbors in Talledega, while my family are still down 
among the workers of the world. I cannot afford to 
travel in style as you do.” 

“Well, you are the one to be envied. The way you 
travel will be far more interesting than the way we have 
to go. I would like to tramp it, would like to live with 
the people and learn something of their customs and 
ways.” 

Leaning on the rail they watched the crowd in the 
steerage. Among them were a few miserable Italian 
emigrants shipped back to their native country, not hav¬ 
ing been permitted to remain on American soil because 
unable to satisfy the immigration authorities that they 
had money or were self-sustaining. Others were well- 
to-do Irish and Germans who had come to America a 
few years ago and had prospered enough to pay a visit 
to their kin in the Old World. These seemed to be as 
proud and happy as if they had accumulated fortunes; 


28 MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 

in fact, when compared with the relatives they expected 
to see in the Old World, they might be considered rich. 
They had-come to America almost as paupers; they 
were returning almost as princes, well-dressed, with 
money in their pockets—a degree of prosperity work¬ 
ingmen seldom attain in Europe. 

“Were I a man,” said Grace, “I should like to take 
steerage once, so as to get some knowledge of the plain 
people.” 

“You mean by that, poor people?” 

“I suppose that is about it,” laughed Grace, “yet it is 
not exactly the same either. In Talledega we were 
poor enough, but we never thought of ourselves as being 
like those people down there. When I think of how 
poor we once were, strange questions come into my 
head.” 

“What sort of questions, Miss Grace?” 

“Why, I cannot forget that we never did any real 
work, that neither mamma nor Clara nor I earned the 
money we spend. We just sold out Talledega land and 
bought Birmingham land, and presto!—we were rich. 
Miners and smelters and carpenters and engineers and 
all sorts of men work day and night for barely enough 
to clothe and feed themselves; all the rest of their labor’s 
products comes to us. Rhett, who earns the money we 
spend? What real right have we to take nearly all that 
those miners dig out of the earth?” 

“They are your mines; that is why you have the right 
to take all the miners dig out; you pay them their 
wages.” 

“Of course that is why I have the legal right, or rather 
the power; but I mean—if we go beyond that—what 
real right have we to live all our lives spending money 
that other people earn? What do we give in return for 
what they give us?” 

“You pay them their wages.” 

“Yes, but with what? We could not pay any one 
wages before we left Talledega; what have we done that 


MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 


23 


enables us to pay them now? Don’t we pay them out of 
what they themselves extract from the mines ?” 

“It does look that way/’ admitted Rhett. 

“It is that way,” continued Grace, energetically. “It 
is just as though I were to tell you to get a hook and 
line and work ten hours a day fishing, and offer you one 
fish out of every ten you catch. We sell the iron and 
then give the miners a tenth of what they produced.” 

“Well, isn’t that fair?” 

“Would it be fair to take nine out of every ten fish 
you catch in the ocean?” 

“Of course not; that is different. You don’t own the 
ocean while you do own the Birmingham mines.” 

“But we had no more to do with making those mines 
than with making the ocean. Why have we the right 
to own the one and not the other?” 

“I can’t answer that,” returned Rhett with a smile, 
“unless it be an answer to say that it is impossible for 
anybody to own the ocean. Were I you, since, as a 
matter of fact you do- own those Birmingham mines, 
I wouldn’t bother as to how or why I came to own them.” 

Changing the subject, Grace now asked what sort of 
people were in the second-class. 

“We have some who promise to- be amusing,” an¬ 
swered Rhett. “Mr. Blower, the manager of a company 
of players, is going to perform before the Queen. He 
says if Buffalo Bill can hobnob with the Queen he 
guesses he can too.” 

“Will the Queen receive him?” 

“Maybe not, but Blower has the assurance to push 
himself anywhere. The moment he heard I wrote for 
the newspapers he proposed to give an exhibition and 
have me write him up.” 

“An exhibition in midocean?” cried Grace, delighted 
at the prospect. “Do let us have one, Rhett.” 

The young man promised to notify the Bartons if the 
performance were to take place; then Grace arose to go. 

“Must you really leave?” asked Rhett, a wistful look 
in his eyes. 


30 


MR. RHETT CALHOUN OF ALABAMA 


“Yes, to see how mamma and Clara get on.” 

Just then, the ship gave a lurch, causing Grace to 
lose her balance. “This boat is rolling so,” said Rhett, 
as he steadied the girl on her feet, “that even at the 
risk of being ordered back I’ve a mind to see you to 
your quarters.” 

“No,” said Grace. “I won’t have it. I’m every bit 
as good a sailor as you, and they might put you in the 
lock-up if you pass the first-class line.” 

With this she started off, swaying this way and that, 
to meet the motion of the ship, and keeping her feet 
like an old sailor. 

“Money hasn’t spoiled her,” murmured Rhett, as he 
watched her lithe figure disappear through the door 
leading into the saloon quarters of the favored class. 
Then he looked grimly at the railing beyond which he 
could not pass. “Before I saw her,” he muttered, “how 
little. that railing worried me. Now I would like to 
tear it down and pitch it into the ocean,” 


CHAPTER IV. 

LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS. 

When Miss Barton seated herself at the dinner table, 
her appetite sharpened by exercise, her complexion rosy 
and freshened by the sea air, she found the seat to her 
left occupied by Lord Apohaqui. The young nobleman 
had been ill since the ship steamed past Sandy Hook, 
and this was his first appearance at table. As Grace 
took her seat the lord gave her a side glance and men¬ 
tally decided that she was the prettiest girl he had seen 
since he left England. Grace quietly proceeded with 
her dinner, seemingly unconscious that any eye was 
upon her. Presently the Captain entered and took his 
place at the table, a short distance from the Englishman. 

“I am glad to see you down, Lord Apohaqui/’ said 
the captain, smiling pleasantly, “you have had quite a 
siege of it, and no wonder: this is rather nasty weather. 
Miss Barton, you seem to be a good sailor?” 

“Every moment is delightful,” replied Grace, youth¬ 
ful rapture in her face and eyes. “But my mother and 
sister don’t like it. They have not been able even to 
look out at the ocean.” 

“They will enjoy it all the better when they do get 
about,” said the captain. 

“That’s what I tell them; I don’t see how anybody 
can help enjoying the ocean. I wonder, Captain, if you 
who cross so often ever get tired of the sea, of its grand 
rolling waves, its wide, wide horizon? Does it ever seem 
commonplace to you?” 

The captain, who was a grizzled old sea-dog with 
iron gray beard and hair and a good-humored counte¬ 
nance, laughed and said the romance and poetry had 
long since vanished from his view; all he now cared 
for was to take his vessel safe from one port to another. 

( 31 ) 


32 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 

“Miss Barton, since you and Lord Apohaqui are neigh¬ 
bors at table perhaps you will permit me to present him?” 

Grace gave an assenting nod, and the next minute the 
young British peer was formally introduced to the 
Talledega heiress. 

“His lordship has not been as fortunate as you, said 
the captain, as he was rising to go on deck, “he has 
been ill until this afternoon.” 

Grace and the Englishman were the only persons at 
their end of the table. 

“You are indeed fortunate, Miss Barton, to escape 
sea-sickness,” said Lord Apohaqui. “Have you crossed 
often?” 

“No, I have never crossed before. It seems odd that 
you should be sick when this is not your first voyage. 
It is my first trip on the sea, but I have not been ill a 
single minute.” 

“How do you know that it is not my first voyage?” 
asked Lord Apohaqui, as he looked at the girl’s clear-cut 
features and rosy complexion. 

“Because the Etruria is going the wrong way for this 
to be your first voyage.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Why, there are no lords in our country, hence you 
must have come to America before you could leave it.” 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he laughingly admitted. 
“It is not my first voyage, but I assure you it is my 
last. Since you escaped the trouble, you have no idea 
how wretched one feels when sea-sick. If ever I go to 
America again it shall be by land, through Asia by way 
of Behring’s Straits.” 

“That would be a great deal worse than getting sea¬ 
sick—still I am ready to believe you wouldn’t mind 
coming that way. I have always heard that Englishmen, 
especially noblemen, like to do unusual things.” 

“I hope by that you don’t mean eccentric things, Miss 
Barton?” 

“No, not exactly eccentric, but—but it is true, is it 
not?” 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 33 

“Why do you fancy that? Are you prejudiced against 
my class ?” 

“Prejudiced is not the right word; of course being 
a democrat I don’t approve of a titled class. You would 
hardly expect that of me.” 

“No, Miss Barton; little as I know you I should ex¬ 
pect you to stick to your principles. But you have not 
told me why you think English noblemen more apt to 
be eccentric—more disposed to indulge in whims and 
caprices than other people.” 

“Because—” then Grace hesitated. 

“Don’t be afraid to speak frankly,” said the lord en¬ 
couragingly. “I promise not to mind your criticism.” 

“I did not hesitate because I was about to be severe, 
but because I was trying to put my reason into words.” 

“Well?” 

“Well, ordinary individuals have regard for public 
opinion—titled people are above public opinion, con¬ 
sequently they care less to please, are less willing 
to obey and more ready to defy the accepted 
ideas of the masses. You know how dreadful kings 
used to be before the days of newspapers. They used 
to feel themselves so much above the people that they 
didn’t even try to put a curb on the bad impulses of 
their hearts.” 

“Do you think newspapers put a curb on kings?” 
queried the young lord, eying Grace with a look of 
interest mixed with admiration. 

“Yes, I do. Newspapers make everything so public. 
Even a king is ashamed to have the knowledge of the 
bad things he may do scattered to the four winds.” 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Barton, but don’t you think 
you rather contradict yourself?” 

“How?” 

“You said titled men are eccentric because they are 
above the rule of public opinion. Now you say even 
kings are curbed by public opinion. If kings are kept 
straight by the newspapers, how much more effect will 
publicity have on mere noblemen?” 


34 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 

Grace laughed. “Yes, it does look inconsistent, yet 
I believe both my statements are true. I believe the 
newspapers exercise a wholesome restraint over kings, 
I also think it to be true that titled men are more prone 
to act on their own individual ideas than untitled men. 
Perhaps their greater independence is the cause. Ordi¬ 
nary men have to make their living; a lord is born to a 
living without work, and no matter what work one does, 
one is bound more or less to please the public.” 

At this moment the head-steward entered the. saloon 
with a lady on either side of him leaning on his arms 
for support. Neither of them was small and it was 
evident the steward had no slight task to keep them on 
their feet. Finally, however, despite the rolling of the 
ship, he succeeded in getting his charges safely seated 
at the table opposite Lord Apohaqui and Grace Barton. 
When this was done the steward came to Grace and 
leaning over whispered something into her ear. “Mam¬ 
ma feeling worse?” she exclaimed. “That is too bad. 
I will go to her at once.” With a bow to Lord Apo¬ 
haqui she left the dining-saloon. During the next five 
minutes the Englishman confined himself to the business 
of eating his dinner; during the same period the two 
ladies who had come in leaning on the steward’s arms 
occupied themselves in staring at, and whispering about, 
their vis-a-vis. At length, the elder one could contain 
herself no longer. 

“I think we saw you on deck, the afternoon we left 
New York,” she said with an extremely gracious air. 
Lord Apohaqui bowed politely. 

“I am sure me and my daughter are charmed to be 
your neighbors at the table,” continued the portly lady 
whose face was now rather pale; usually Mrs. Packer’s 
color was very high but she still showed the traces of 
that indescribable misery which accompanies “going to 
sea” and from which even the dollars of the late Packer 
could not buy her absolvence. 

“Very kind, I am sure,” observed the young lord, 
taking a good look at his vis-a-vis across the table. 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 35 


“Yes,” continued Mrs. Packer, “it is so much to be 
neighbors with nice people. I am Mrs. Ford Packer 
of Chicago.” 

The Englishman bowed. 

“As we are going to be table-neighbors,” the Chica¬ 
goan added affably, “what is the use of being stiff and 
formal? That’s what Mr. Packer used always to be a- 
saying. Packer was a self-made man and mixed with 
everybody, but he always said to me, ‘Mrs. Packer, men 
and women are different; men can mix but women 
can’t, and you and Lobelia take care that you go only 
with the first. Poor Packer! I wish he could be here 
so as to see how we are following his advice.” 

“Mr. Packer did not come with you then?” asked the 
lord. 

“Come with us! How I wish he could! but lie’s dead, 
my lord,—died three years ago, not long after our 
Johnny died. Johnny’s dying so sudden-like—Johnny 
was drowned in the Lake—sorter preyed on Packer’s 
mind and he kept saying, ‘It’s too much money for one 
child., What’ll she do with it?’ meaning his money was 
too much for Lobelia, which he had expected to divide 
equal with her and Johnny.” 

“Indeed? sad, very sad,” muttered Lord Apohaqui, 
rather bewildered by this unbidden flow of confidences. 

“Yes, it was sad,” said Mrs. Packer, “it preyed on 
Packer’s mind and worried him into the grave. This 
is my daughter Lobelia, Lord Apohaqui.” 

“Ah, I am glad to know you, Miss Packer,” said his 
lordship; there was an awkward pause which the young 
nobleman broke by passing Miss Lobelia the toast. 

“Lobelia,” said Mrs. Packer, reprovingly, “don’t you 
see the lord is offering you some toast? Can’t you 
thank him?” 

“Thanks,” murmured Lobelia, blushing furiously as 
she put out her large white hand—by no means an ugly 
one—and took a piece of the proffered toast. 

“I wish,” remarked Mrs. Packer, “that we’d had the 
pleasure of meeting your lordship in Chicago. Lobelia 


36 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 


and I would have been proud to have you visit us. 
Poor dear Packer was fond of entertaining distinguished 
men, especially the military. Packer was not in the 
army himself but he always had the great generals come 
to see him. Many a time we’ve had twenty people all 
at once. We have a large house. I told Packer when 
he was building it that it was too< big and so it was, 
even when Packer and Johnny were alive. You can 
imagine how big a thirty-six room house seems to me 
and Lobelia all by ourselves.” 

The young Englishman good-naturedly said, “Yes, 
a thirty-six room house was rather large for two people 
soon after that he bowed himself away. 

In high feather at the progress she was making, Mrs. 
Packer quite forgot how sea-sick she had been, and how 
weak she still was. “He’s just as affable and friendly 
as any of the common sort,” she said to Lobelia. “I 
never see any man more so. It’s a lucky thing we 
came on this ship, and to think of getting seats right 
opposite him! If we act right he’ll interduce us to the 
nobility when we get to London, and who knows then 
what may happen?” 

“La, ma, don’t talk nonsense,” said Lobelia. 

“I don’t see why it’s nonsense for you any more than 
for any other rich American girl,” retorted the mother. 
“I am sure your pa left you as big a pile as that New 
York woman who married a Dook. How would you 
like to be a Dookess, Lobelia?” 

“Duchess, ma, duchess!” said Lobelia, petulantly. 
“Don’t say Dookess, there’s no such word.” 

“Well, Duchess then,” repeated Mrs. Packer, with 
perfect good humor. She recognized in her daughter 
a right to correct mistakes: had she not paid the very 
highest prices to have her educated? “You are hand¬ 
some enough and rich enough, Lobelia, to marry a 
dook or even a prince. Look at that Ward girl! she 
married a prince!” 

. for gracious sake, ma!” cried Lobelia, impa¬ 
tiently, don t talk about her. She disgraced herself. 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 3? 


Let’s go on deck. Mr. Morton is there. Besides, I’m 
dying for a breath of fresh air.” 

These two short interviews had made Lord Apohaqui 
feel confident he could obtain either one of the Ameri¬ 
can heiresses for the asking; but in the event he honored 
one of them with the noble Apohaqui name, could her 
Americanisms be toned down to suit English ideas of 
good form? Lord Apohaqui knew that his mother, the 
Dowager Baroness Apohaqui, was greatly prejudiced 
against Americans; he questioned if any number of 
millions would atone in her eyes for such extraordinary 
manners as those displayed by the Chicagoan “lady”. 
True, Miss Packer had kept quiet and was really hand¬ 
some, but with such a mother as Mrs. Packer, Lord 
Apohaqui doubted if any amount of veneering would 
make the daughter a lady. So for the time being he 
dropped the Packers from his calculations and turned 
his thoughts to the Barton girl. She was unconventional, 
she went about on deck with the captain without a 
chaperone, she walked and talked with a second-class 
passenger and she had some curious ideas—in short, 
she was decidedly American; but might not this be 
remedied in time? There was no denying her beauty; 
moreover, there was something about Grace’s manner 
that fascinated him, despite her ultra-Americanism. 

Next morning, as he was eating his orange at break¬ 
fast, he saw Grace coming to the table leading two 
ladies whom he surmised to be her mother and sister. 
Both these new-comers had a languid air and pale 
features; Mrs. Barton’s face had something of the martyr 
in it, as if patiently suffering, but appealing for sympathy. 

“Mamma,” said Grace, “permit me to present to you 
Lord Apohaqui. Lord Apohaqui, this is my mother 
and my sister Clara.” 

“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Barton, and Miss 
Clara Barton,” said the young lord. “Your daughter 
has told me you have suffered from sea-sickness. I 
sympathize with you. I was horribly sick myself.” 

“If the sea made you half as miserable as it made 


38 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 


me” moaned Mrs. Barton, plaintively, “1 pity you deep¬ 
ly; I don’t see why people will go to sea. We are not 
sea animals, we are land animals; it is contrary to the 
—the Creator’s intentions to—to try to make sea animals 
of ourselves. I can’t eat, Grace; make them take my 
plate away.” 

“Try a little coffee, mamma,” urged Grace, when the 
beefsteak was removed. Mrs. Barton sipped the coffee 
in silence. Presently she raised her big, innocent eyes 
and thoughtfully contemplated Lord Apohaqui’s counte¬ 
nance. 

“Did you say he was a lord, Grace?” she asked softly, 
but loud enough for all near to hear. 

“Yes, mamma, from England.” 

“Grace, don’t you think Lord Apohaqui looks like 
that Italian nobleman in the Grand Hotel in Talledega?” 

Clara bit her lip to keep from laughing, but Grace 
maintained imperturbable gravity. The young lord’s 
face flushed a little under these open comments. 

“Do you mean Count Satolli?” questioned Grace. 

“Yes, that Italian Count everybody was talking about 
and pitying. Don’t you think Lord Apohaqui looks 
like him?” 

“No, mamma, not the least in the world. Count 
Satolli was a small man, and dark, whereas Lord Apo¬ 
haqui is tall and not at all dark.” 

“I did not mean in the details, Grace,” returned Mrs. 
Barton, with mild reproach. “You are not as critical 
an observer as your mother; I meant in general bear¬ 
ing. Both being noblemen it is only to be expected 
that there should be a resemblance in their manners. 
No, my dear, I can’t eat. Tell the man not to bring 
me anything more; it makes me sick to see food.” 

Soon after this the young lord escorted the Bartons 
on deck, where they ensconced themselves in reclining 
chairs to enjoy the bracing air. Five or ten minutes 
later, Lord Apohaqui saw coming toward him what may 
be called an “old-young” man, i. e., a man about forty- 
five who tried to act and look like a man of twenty-five. 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONtS 39 

The streaks of gray in his hair and mustache were care¬ 
fully dyed; his dress and manner led the Bartons to 
fancy he was an Englishman; in reality he was a native 
New Yorker who had lived much abroad and was thor¬ 
oughly imbued with European tastes. The manners 
and customs of England were in Mr. Montrose Morton’s 
esteem the most perfect manners and customs imagin¬ 
able. The Anglomaniac had once met Lord Apohaqui 
at a dinner in London and on the strength of this meet¬ 
ing now claimed his acquaintance. He thrust his hand 
out to the young peer in the most friendly way, but the 
noble digits remained hidden under their rug, and the 
noble owner of the digits merely stared at the man who 
presumed to know him. 

“Aw, you know, my lord,” insisted Morton, with un¬ 
abashed assurance, “I had the pleasure of meeting you 
at the Cheshire Cheese.” 

“The Cheshire Cheese?” said Lord Apohaqui. “Yes, 
I remember now.” 

“Oh, dear Mr. Morton,” cried a loud, cheerful female 
voice, a voice which the Englishman well knew by this 
time, “are you an old friend of Lord Apohaqui? He 
is our neighbor at table. I do hope, Mr. Morton, you’ll 
get a seat at our table. Lobelia, make the deck steward 
fetch our wraps and chairs on this side. It ain’t half 
so windy here. I tell you, Lord Apohaqui, we most 
got blowed away on the other side.” 

Of course Mr. Morton’s gallantry did not permit 
• Miss Packer to go. “Aw, I’ll see the steward,” he 
offered, and when the wraps and chairs were brought, 
Mr. Moreton busied himself tucking up the Packer 
ladies. 

“I call this real comfort,” commented Mrs. Packer, 
giving Mr. Morton an amiable smile. “Don’t you, 
my lord?” 

“Yes, very,” replied Lord Apohaqui, politely. 

“Mr. Morton,” continued Mrs. Packer, “I want you 
and Lord Apohaqui to tell us what we must see in 
London. We are going to London first. Lobelia and 


40 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 

me are crazy to see the Queen. I suppose you see the 
Queen very frequently, my lord?” 

“I have seen her Majesty but once in my life, madam.” 

“Goodness gracious! I thought the aristocracy was 
real thick with the royal family. Is—is she as proud as 
all that?” 

Mr. Montrose Morton made a diversion. “Miss 
Barton,” he drawled, “Aw—I’m awfully glad, I’m sure, 
to find you on board.” 

“We did not expect to see you, Mr. Morton,” replied 
Grace. “Your sister did not tell us you were going.” 

“Aw, I didn’t know myself until the day before. Made 
up my mind very sudden, you know.” Then Mr. 
Morton introduced the Bartons to the Packers. Mrs. 
Packer was frigid, but the Bartons, unaccustomed to 
being snubbed, were not on the lookout for snubs, hence 
attributed Mrs. Packer’s frigidity to a mere peculiarity 
of temper, never dreaming it could be due to a feeling 
of superiority. 

“You will remain some time in London?” said Grace 
with a view to being friendly. Mrs. Packer became 
afraid that the Bartons might wish to “hang on” to her 
in London, so she answered icily: 

“We haven’t made up our minds just how long we’ll 
stay in London.” 

“Is this your first ocean voyage?” asked Clara with 
the same idea of being friendly. 

“Yes, it is,” snapped Miss Packer, carrying out her 
mother’s plan of not picking up “common folks” while 
traveling. 

Then silence fell between the Packers and the Bartons. 

Mr. Morton was more cordial. He had met the 
Bartons at the Finisher Institute where his sister was 
being educated, and through his sister he knew of their 
solid financial standing, and so he devoted himself to 
them, leaving Lord Apohaqui to the charming Packer 
ladies. 

“My lord,” began Mrs. Packer, smiling benignantly 
on the Englishman, “Lobelia and me are extremely 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 41 


partial to your country. We like the aristocracy; it is 
so refining; we Americans who have money enough to 
keep it up would be delighted to have lords and ladies 
and dooks and doo-” 

“Ma!” remonstrated Miss Packer, in an agonized 
whisper, as she gave her mother a sharp pinch under 
her rug. 

“Well, Lobelia, I wasn’t going to say anything wrong. 
Don’t squeal before you’re hurt. Lord Apohaqui knows 
what I mejan. I was going to say, my lord, it’s a shame 
we haven’t got a solid aristocracy in America, and more 
shame we haven’t even got a 400 in Chicago. Don’t 
you think so, Mr. Morton?” 

Mr. Montrose Morton felt the compliment implied 
in Mrs. Packer’s question; he was a member of New 
York’s “400” and Mrs. Packer was right to apply to 
him as an authority; Mr. Morton believed that New 
York’s “400” was next door to England’s nobility, and 
was a little wounded when Lord Apohaqui inquired, 
“What is the ‘400’?” 

“New York’s 400 is America’s aristocracy,” responded 
Mr. Morton, with a gravity befitting the subject. “Our 
aristocracy is not established in law, as yours is in Eng¬ 
land, but it rests on a firm foundation.” 

“What is that foundation?” asked the lord. 

“Money—millions of money, especially millions hand¬ 
ed down from father to son. The 400 seldom tolerate 
the membership of a man who has made his own 
millions.” 

“Very interesting, indeed,” said the lord. 

“Oh, Mr. Morton!” cried Mrs. Packer, warmly, “you 
don’t know how awful anxious the millionaire ladies 
of Chicago are to get up a 400 like yours in New York. 
We all read Ward McAllister’s grand little book, and 
we tried to get him to come to Chicago and start a 400.” 

“There never was another man like Ward McAllister,” 
said Mr. Morton, impressively. “No other man could 
have done what he did. As he said in his book, he 
found society a chaos*—and left it a 400.” 



42 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 


“Do you remember, Mr. Morton, what Ward said in 
his book about soup?” said Mrs. Packer. “Before we 
read dear Ward’s book we had no idea how important 
soup is in society—of course, I mean aristocratic society. 
Soup, you know, is every bit as high up as wine?” 

“More so,” interrupted Mr. Morton sententiously, 
and continued with the gravity of a judge delivering 
the opinion of the associate justices of the Supreme 
Court : 

“Soup being served first is the test. As is the soup, 
so is the dinner. In his great book Mr. McAllister 
relates how he lost a charming friend by excelling in 
soups.” 

“How was that,” queried Lord Apohaqui. 

“His friend’s wife was dining at Mr. McAllister’s; 
the soup was—well—it was soup for the gods; his 
friend’s wife was in despair—her soup could never rival 
McAllister’s. On returning home to her husband she 
threw up her hands exclaiming, ‘Oh, what a soup’, and 
from that moment the two charming friends were lost 
to the McAllisters, because they could not bear to be 
outdone in soup.” 

“Ah—sad—very sad,” murmured the young English¬ 
man, with a serious face. 

“Mr. Morton,” said Grace Barton, “is that little story 
really related in Mr. McAllister’s book?” 

“It is indeed, I assure you.” 

“Related in earnest?” 

“Miss Barton,” replied Mr. Morton, “Mr. McAllister 
did not permit himself to jest about the high society of 
New York.” 

I beg pardon,” said Grace. “I have never read the 
book, and we of the South know nothing of 400s.” 

“Of course not,” interposed Mrs. Packer. “There 
can’t be a 400 in the South; you haven’t got the material 
down there. Heaven knows it’s hard enough to get up 
a 400 in Chicago where we have every bit as much 
money as they have in New York. Society is so awfully 
mixed in Chicago. A poor lawyer’s wife with last year’s 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 43 


silk gown turned and made over, is just as apt to be 
noticed and taken up as a millionaire lady, so what’s 
the use of having millions of money? At the last ball 
we went to in Chicago we saw a chit of a girl whose 
father is a doctor and keeps only one carriage—the one 
he uses in his business—would you believe it, mylord, 
that girl was made as much of as though she was covered 
with diamonds.” 

I “Is it possible?” said Lord Apohaqui, gravely. 

“It’s true, let alone possible; and that’s why I say, 
what’s the use wearing Paris gowns and driving in your 
own carriage when a doctor’s girl is taken up like that?” 

“La, ma,” said Miss Lobelia, “how you do talk! You 
oughtn’t to run Chicago down as long as we live there.” 

“We needn’t keep on living there. I’m free to say, 
Lord Apohaqui, I like aristocracy, and maybe we will 
settle in England; at any rate, we’ll stay for some time 
where Lobelia can associate with the high society—I 
consider high society so refining.” 

“You are too flattering, madam,” said the young lord, 
“too flattering by far. I’ve no doubt we English have 
more to learn from* your new and vigorous west than 
you have to learn from us. Do you not think so, Miss 
Barton?” 

“I know too little of the English to express an opinion 
about them, but I agree with Mrs. Packer, it is dreadful 
to mix up with lawyers’ and doctors’ families. It is 
worth while to move to England to escape such con¬ 
tamination, even were there no other reasons, which, 
of course, there are.” A twinkle in Grace’s eye was 
the only indication the girl gave thaj: she was indulging 
in “a bit of chaff,” as Lord Apohaqui mentally termed 
it. Mrs. Barton, not observing the twinkle and suppos¬ 
ing her daughter in earnest, gathered up her rug and 
wraps and arose with an air of wounded dignity. 

“Grace,” she said, “your own father was a lawyer, 
and your uncle was a doctor. It does not become the 
daughter of a Confederate Colonel to disparage the legal 


44 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE BARTONS 


and medical professions. I’ll go in now; I am tired of 
such talk.” 

“Mamma,” cried Grace, as she arose to accompany 
her mother, “I did not mean to say a thing against the 
South, you know I didn’t.” The rest of her explanation 
was lost to the party on deck, but that the explanation 
was satisfactory, Lord Apohaqui, who had seen the 
twinkle in Grace’s eye, made no manner of doubt. 


CHAPTER V. 

LORD APOHAQUI MEETS MR. RHETT CALHOUN. 

On reaching the ladies’ cabin Mrs. Barton resumed 
the reading of her novel, Clara retired to her room, and 
Grace began writing notes in her diary. When she had 
finished writing she announced her intention of going 
aft to see Rhett Calhoun. 

“It is only nine o’clock, and Rhett said he would be 
in the nook until after ten. The night is beautiful, the 
moon is as bright as a new silver dollar. I won’t be 
gone long.” 

“It would be better for Rhett to come here,” said 
Mrs. Barton. 

“I wish he could, but he can’t cross the line into our 
territory, it’s against the rule; we can go over to his 
part.” 

Throwing a shawl around her shoulders and promising 
not to be gone long, the girl went on deck. At that 
moment, the moon was obscured by a passing cloud, 
and Grace almost walked into, a solid body that was 
promenading the deck and proved to be Lord Apo- 
haqui. 

“I beg your pardon—” began his lordship, then 
stopped shcyt as he recognized with whom he had 
collided. 

“Oh, it is you?” said Grace. “You were gliding about 
so softly I mistopk you for a ghost.” 

“But since I have been so awkward as to run against 
you, you see how very tangible I am?” 

“Yes.” 

“And now you no longer mistake me for a ghost?” 

“No, indeed,” answered Grace, laughing. “No ghost 
could run against a person like that.” With this she was 

( 45 ) 


46 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS MR. CALHOUN 


about to pass on, when Lord Apohaqui said with some 
earnestness: 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Barton. I would like to 
say just a word. I want you to know that I—I quite 
understand the difference between you and those—those 
countrywomen of yours from Chicago-” 

“Oh, they are not our countrywomen, Lord Apohaqui. 
Chicago is a thousand miles from Alabama. We are 
Southern.” 

“The way they talked to you and your mother cer¬ 
tainly showed they had not the advantages of good 
breeding. I trust they did not wound your feelings or 
your mother’s?” 

“Wound our feelings?” said Grace. “Not a bit of it. 
On the contrary, I enjoy the Packers. They are so 
different from our people. They amuse us. Mamma 
may be a little resentful at times, but it does not last. 
For my part, I feel actually indebted to the Packers 
because of the material they furnished for my note-book. 
I have filled five pages to-night since we went into the 
cabin, and but for the Packers I could not have filled 
one page.” 

They were now at the railing separating the second 
from the first class quarters; dropping the lord’s arm, 
which she had accepted to steady her steps, Grace 
thanked him for bringing her so far in safety, and bade 
him “good-night.” 

“But why must you leave me?” asked Lord Apohaqui. 
“May I not see you back to the ladies’ saloon?” 

“Thank you, but I am going on this side to see an 
old friend who is traveling second-class.” 

“An Alabama girl?” 

“No, an Alabama man—the son of my mother’s oldest 
and dearest friend. Mr. Calhoun hasn’t made his fortune 
yet, that’s why he is traveling second-class.” 

At this moment Rhett approached, and Grace said 
to him; “I came to tell you mamma and Clara are not 
well enough to pay you a visit to-night; they will come 
to-morrow. Lord Apohaqui, if you like I will introduce 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS MR. CALHOUN 47 


you to Mr. Calhoun and you can come over to his side 
of the ship and see the second cabin.” 

The two young men bowed rather stiffly. It was so 
dark neither could farm an accurate opinion of the other’s 
personal appearance; both were tall, both stalwart—that 
was all they could determine. It can not be said that 
either the Englishman or the Alabamian was in love 
with Grace, yet they felt an instinctive dislike to each 
other. Rhett Calhoun became somewhat moody and 
depressed, the young lord somewhat suspicious and dis¬ 
satisfied. “An English lord?” was Calhoun’s bitter 
thought. “And American girls are crazy about titles. 

D-him! He can see her every hour of the day while 

I am railed off here-” 

This state of affairs was enough to irritate any Ameri¬ 
can youth who never before had felt himself cabined, 
cribbed and confined on account of his impecuniosity. 
While in Washington, Rhett went among the highest, 
although he was known to be just a clerk in one of the 
Government departments. As to the Englishman, a 
gloom also fell upon his spirits; he fancied he had found 
the very girl he would like to make his wife if only she 
were not so American. She was pretty enough, indeed 
he admitted to himself that she was prettier than any 
woman he had ever met; she was vivacious, bright, 
entertaining; but could he marry a girl guilty of such 
bad form as walking at night on deck alone? What 
sort of a mother could Mrs. Barton be to permit her 
daughter to start out alone in the night to see a young 
man—a second cabin passenger? And yet—and yet 
there was something about her which commanded his 
entire respect; not for a moment did he imagine that 
he or any other man could be more familiar with her 
than with a girl chaperoned by the grandest Duchess 
in England. 

“Rhett,” said Grace, “mamma and Clara are anxious 
to see your show people. When are they to give their 
exhibition?” 

“Mr. Blower means to have the performance come 




48 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS MR. CALHOUN 


off to-morrow night,” returned Rhett, rather coldly. “It 
is for the benefit of a poor Italian girl on her way back 
to Italy, very ill with consumption. She went to America 
to make money for her family. She is a singer.” 

“That is all the more reason why we must come,” 
cried Grace. “You must come too, Lord Apohaqui, 
and bring the Packers and Mr. Morton. You know 
them; do use your influence to make them attend. We 
must help this poor Italian girl all we can.” 

“I will do my best, Miss Barton,” said the lord. 

“Rhett, I am wild to see the Arkansas Strong Girl, 
whom they say is the star of this wonderful troupe,” 
continued Grace. “I shall feel proud of her because 
she is a Southerner. Imagine, Lord Apohaqui, a girl 
as strong as a lioness and as handsome as a goddess— 
that is the way Rhett describes her.” 

“She must be wonderful!” said the lord. “America 
is a grand country and produces grand people.” 

“Of course, America is a grand country. Good-night, 
Rhett. We shall see you to-morrow.” 

After Lord Apohaqui had escorted Grace to the foot 
of the stairs, he repaired to the deck to smoke his pipe 
and reflect upon the day’s developments. He told him¬ 
self that Grace was absolutely lacking in “good form;” 
were an English girl to promenade alone with him on 
deck at. night he would not consider her a matrimonial 
possibility. But Grace was so lovely! It was a thousand 
pities she had not been reared with at least some knowl¬ 
edge of European manners! 


CHAPTER VI. 

MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA. 

The following morning when Mr. Rhett Calhoun took 
his seat at breakfast he saw across the table a young 
man in a German blouse, whom the day before he had 
noticed among the crowd on the lower deck. Rhett 
had been engaged only a few minutes in conversation 
with the passenger at his right, when he was interrupted 
by the person in question. 

‘‘This is luck/’ cried he, with cheerful satisfaction. 
“Not only out of the steerage into the cabin, but I am 
put opposite a first-class Southern gentleman.” 

Rhett stared at the young fellow; he was homely but 
looked honest; his eyes were gray and glinting; his 
hair red and stiff and straight; he was short and stout 
and sturdy; he wore a blouse such as is worn by work¬ 
ingmen in Germany. “Do you allude to me as the ‘first- 
class Southern gentleman’?” Rhett asked in a friendly 
way. 

“Exactly so,” returned the other, emphatically. “I 
haven’t seen any other Southerner on this ship.” 

“How do you know that I am from the South?” 

“By the accent, sir. I’d know a Southern accent if 
I heard it in the catacombs. I reckon you hail from 
Alabama or Mississippi? Sister states, you know, and 
accent pretty much the same. I’m from New Orleans.” 

“You must have a keen ear for sounds,” laughed Rhett. 
“At any rate you hit it exactly right when you guessed 

_ a 

“Reckon, reckon,” corrected the red-headed young 
man quickly. “I never use the word guess unless really 
guessing. I would just as soon say ‘hadn’t oughter’.” 

“I accept your correction,” said Rhett, good-humor¬ 
edly, “though, really, I thought it was a guess when 

( 49 ) 



50 MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 


you asked if I was from the South, but you certainly 
reckoned right when you said Alabama. That’s my 
native State,” and he added, “I should never take ‘you’ 
for a Southerner, or even for an American; that is, if I 
judged from your costume. It is only your voice that 
savors of our beloved Southland.” 

“You couldn’t tell from my costume?” said the red¬ 
headed young man, his face beaming with pleasure. 
“Good! I am glad to hear you say that. I am going 
on a pedestrian trip—going as a ‘Handwerksbursche’. 
It’s gratifying to know that my disguise is a success. 
They’ll take me for a native and not overcharge me. 
Moreover, I’ll get closer to the people. Did you ever 
travel as a Handwerksbursche?” 

“No, I don’t know even what that means.” 

“Not up in German, eh?” 

“My education in that line has been sadly neglected.” 

“I’ve posted myself for a purpose. There’s no use 
learning a language unless you mean to do something 
with it. I’ve had this trip in my mind since I was fifteen 
years old. A Handwerksbursche is a strolling journey¬ 
man—a mechanic who wanders about from place to 
place picking up jobs. The woods of Germany are full 
of ’em. They dress like this. Picturesque, isn’t it?” 

“Well, no,” returned Rhett, critically surveying the 
blue blouse worn by his table neighbor, “I can’t say it 
is picturesque, though I dare say it is comfortable.” 

“Cert, it is comfortable; it gives the wind a chance 
to get around a fellow. They have a jolly time of it.” 

“The Handwerkers?” 

“Yes, they haven’t much money, but neither have 
they much work; they see the world and study the peo¬ 
ple. That’s what I mean to do. What else does a 
fellow travel for? I wouldn’t give a dried fig for old 
tumbledown ruins. What I want to get at is the toiling, 
moiling mass of humanity. I want to get at the core 
of their hearts and know how the downtrodden slaves 
of the century think and feel.” 

The red-headed man talked hard and fast, but that 


MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 


51 


did not prevent his eating hard and fast at the same 
time; they finished their breakfast at the same time and 
left the table together. As they walked away, Rhett’s 
new acquaintance confidentially informed him that it was 
a desire to study human nature which had led him to 
start from New York in the steerage. 

“Are you in the steerage?” 

“I was, but the purser has just transferred me to the 
second cabin. I was in the steerage three days. That 
is enough, I know all about it. Besides, I wish to get 
glimpses of all phases of life. I want to study cabin as 
well as steerage passengers, high as well as low life. 
Even the sweeping vision of an eagle is not too broad 
for the G. A. N.” 

“For the what?” asked Rhett, a little dazed at the 
young man’s grandiloquent metaphor and gesture. 

“The G. A. N.,” repeated the young man, leaning 
closer to Rhett and speaking in a low tone. “I don’t 
mind telling you, a Southerner, that I am the author of 
the G. A. N. I am at work on it now.” 

“What is the G. A. N.?” asked Rhett, a vague suspi¬ 
cion coming upon him that his companion was slightly 
demented. 

“Between Southerners there need be no secrets,” said 
the young man confidentially. “But it must go> no 
further. The G. A. N. is the Great American Novel. 
Do you annex?” The young man drew back and eyed 
Rhett as if he expected an explosion of admiration. 
Before Rhett could answer, the red-headed young man 
continued in a burst of enthusiasm, “It is a tremendous 
work—comprises scenes and characters throughout the 
length and breadth of magnificent America. A tremen¬ 
dous work, but I’m compassing it. I’m going to knock 
the persimmon from the highest limb of the tree of fame. 
The G. A. N. will shake the literary world to the core. 
It will have no Howellism, no Jamesism in it; it will be 
Gassawayism all the way through.” 

With this he looked at Rhett as if he expected soul- 
felt sympathy in his great undertaking. 


52 MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 


“It is a great ambition, 1 ” said Rhett in response to 
the look, “but what is Gassawayism?” 

“Ah/’ exclaimed the young man pulling out his hand¬ 
kerchief and moping his brow, “excuse me—I omitted 
to give my name—Green Gassaway, at your service— 
representative of two ancient stocks, the Greens and the 
Gassaways, both first families of the South, scholars on 
both sides, poets and politicians, men of learning, women 
of beauty—at present reporter on ‘New Orleans Day¬ 
light’, and author of the G. A. N. There’s my hand.” 

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gassa¬ 
way,” said Rhett, shaking the proffered hand warmly. 
“My name is Rhett Calhoun.” 

“Rhett Calhoun?” repeated Mr. Gassaway. “A good 
Southern name. I am glad to know you, Rhett.” 

“Calhoun, if you please, I prefer to be called Calhoun 
by strangers.” 

“Oh, come,” exclaimed Gassaway, again moping his 
forehead, which had a way of looking hot and sweaty 
on the slightest provocation, “come, my dear Rhett. 
That’s all right between strangers, but between South¬ 
erners, between men of the first families of the South, 
there is no need of formality, not the least.” 

During this speech Rhett made an attempt to assume 
an air of dignity, but it would not stand. Dignity wilted 
under the spontaneous warmth of soul manifested by 
Mr. Gassaway of New Orleans. 

“Formality had not been entirely done away with up 
to the time I left Alabama,” said Rhett, laughing. “How¬ 
ever, it is of no moment. I trust the G. A. N. may prove 
worthy of its name and—and author.” 

“Thank you, thank you, sir, for the sentiment. And 
you need have no fear. I am getting pointers every 
day.” 

“Is it a difficult task?” 

“Difficult? To the uninspired, yes, extremely difficult. 
But to me, writing is child’s play. Ever see a juggler 
throw balls up in the air? Tosses up one, then another, 
and still another—and so on, until he gets a dozen whirl- 


MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 53 


ing at the same time? Just so with novel writing. Get 
in one character, then another, and so on; the juggler 
has only to turn his wrist and keep his eyes peeled to 
keep the balls going. Same principle in writing. You 
have only to hustle on your characters from chapter to 
chapter.” 

“l see/’ said Rhett, when the man of genius paused 
to take breath. “The G. A. N. is a grand idea. When 
will it be published?” 

“Some time in the future. Of course a work like 
the G. A. N. can not burst into being in a day or a 
week. I am getting pointers on every hand. Mean¬ 
while I earn my bread by writing for the Daylight. The 
Daylight sends me to Europe to write up the seamy 
side of life. The labor question in Europe is,—hello, I 
reckon these ladies are heading for us.” 

The ladies who caused this interruption were Mrs. 
Barton and Clara. 

“Mrs. Barton, Miss Clara,” exclaimed Rhett, stepping 
forward to greet them, “how glad I am to see you.” 

“How are you, Rhett?” Mrs. Barton said, cordially 
reaching out her plump white hand to be shaken. “You 
are the last person I ever dreamed of meeting here. 
Clara and I thought Grace was joking when she told 
us you were aboard.” 

“Yes,” added Clara, “it seemed too good to be true, 
your bobbing up this way in midocean.” 

“Clara, my dear,” reproved Mrs. Barton, “let me beg 
you not to use Yankee slang. You know Rhett must 
have come aboard when we did, consequently he did 
not ‘bob’ up in midocean.” 

“Well, mamma, we did not see him until we were 
midway—that’s what I mean. Were you hiding, Rhett?” 

“No, I have merely kept on my side of the ship.” 

“You foolish boy. The idea of your keeping away 
because you are in this part of the ship. We’d go to 
you anywhere, Rhett, and this place certainly seems as 
good as our quarters.” 

“Oh, it’s good enough,” laughed Rhett, “and it suits 


54 MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 


my purse better than your part of the ship That’s why 
I came this way.” 

“Very sensible of you,” said Mrs. Barton. “Your 
mother and I have seen days when we would have 
thought this way of traveling as fine as a fiddle. You 
don’t remember when we used to ride to town in a 
rickety old wagon? And when the wagon was hauling 
cotton I mounted Colonel Barton’s old gray mule and 
your mother rode behind me.” 

“I remember that old gray mule very well,” added 
Clara; “I thought it was the finest steed in the world 
and used to feel very proud when Colonel Barton let 
me ride behind him.” 

During these reminiscences Mr. Gassaway was not 
altogether idle; he looked at the ladies and the ladies 
looked at him. Rhett for the moment forgot his new 
acquaintance, but the author of the G. A. N. was not 
one to be left long in the background. Taking out his 
note-book he jotted down a few lines, then looked up, 
ran his fingers through his hair and said, with delight¬ 
ful bonhommie: 

“Ah, Southern ladies? eh, Rhett. Introduce me!” 

Somehow, there was that about Mr. Gassaway which 
inspired perfect confidence. It never occurred to Rhett 
to suspect that Gassaway was not exactly what he 
claimed to be, therefore he had no hesitation in intro¬ 
ducing him to the Barton ladies. “I beg your pardon, 
Mr. Gassaway, I was so glad to see my old friends that 
I forgot you.” 

“All right, Rhett, never too late to mend,” cried Gassa¬ 
way, doffing his hat and making a profound bow to the 
ladies. Before the less impulsive Calhoun could effect 
the introduction, the author of the future G. A. N. intro¬ 
duced himself. “I am Green Gassaway, at your service; 
most delighted to meet Southern ladies. I take it, 
madam, you hail from Alabama?” 

“Why do you think that?” 

“Ah, Mrs. Barton,” said Rhett, laughing, “Mr. Gassa¬ 
way has a wonderful ear for niceties of sound. It is 


MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 56 


nothing for him to< detect the State one hails from. If 
he tries, he can tell your city and even your street and 
number.” 

“My friend indulges in chaff, as you must know,” 
said Mr. Gassaway with another courtly bow. Taken 
with his personal appearance—his short, thick-set figure, 
his round head, stiff red hair and homely, honest face. 
Mr. Gassaway’s courtly manners were striking indeed. 

“Were you ever in Birmingham, Mr. Gassaway?” 
asked Mrs. Barton. 

“Birmingham?” cried Mr. Gassaway, with the liveliest 
interest. “Are you, madam, from Birmingham?” 

“That is our home now. We are originally from 
Talledega.” 

“Well this is luck!” cried Gassaway, his face beam¬ 
ing with joy. “Rhett, I am in the favor of the gods—I 
am, for a verity.” 

Mr. Gassaway laid his short, thick-set right hand flat 
on the spot beneath which his heart was beating, made 
a deep and reverential obeisance to the two Barton ladies, 
recovered his perpendicular position, then said in an 
almost solemn tone; “Mrs. Barton, of Birmingham, form¬ 
erly of Talledega, widow of the' brave, the chivalrous 
soldier Colonel Barton, I salute you! I ought to have 
known you. I’ve seen your picture a hundred times. 
My mother treasures it in her finest album. My father 
treasures Colonel Barton’s picture in his finest album. 
Mrs. Barton, I am delighted to meet you, to know you, 
to shake you by the hand—how are you?” 

With this Gassaway briskly took his hand away from 
over his heart, grasped Mrs. Barton’s hand and shook 
it with great friendliness. Mrs. Barton, who had no 
memory whatever of the Gassaway name, gazed at the 
young man with open-eyed amazement. 

“Your mother has my picture?” she murmured, sink¬ 
ing down on the bench. 

“She has, madam,” replied Gassaway, with another 
bow so grave, so courtly, that Clara Barton had to bite 
her lips to preserve her gravity. “She treasures it as 


. 56 MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 


a memento of girlhood days. My mother and you were 
at the same boarding-school. You were Miss Sophy 
Ballington, my mother was Dolly Green.” 

“Oh, are you Dolly Green’s son?” 

“I have that honor. My father, Judge Gassaway of 
New Orleans, was in the army with Col. Barton. Possi¬ 
bly you may know Judge Gassaway?” 

“No, I don’t believe I do. I never knew whom Dolly 
Green married.” 

“Dolly Green, Mrs. Barton,” said Mr. Gassaway 
gravely, “married Judge Gassaway of New Orleans. It 
is admitted by the whole New Orleans bar that my 
father’s mind is deep, logical, profound. I grieve to 
say his health is now poor—very poor. Nervous pros¬ 
tration, Mrs. Barton—nervous prostration from too 
arduous application to his profession—entirely too ardu¬ 
ous.” 

Mrs. Barton said she was sorry to hear it, she hoped 
his mother was well? 

“My mother?” exclaimed Mr. Gassaway, a broad smile 
lighting his face. “Yes, God bless her! She enjoys 
the best of health. She is one woman in a million.” 

“I am sure she is blessed in having a son who loves 
her so.” 

“Loves and honors her; to honor my mother,” said 
Mr. Gassaway, with great courtliness, doffing his hat 
as though to some invisible queen, “is to honor myself. 
Has it struck you, Mrs. Barton, what a coincidence is 
this midocean meeting? It is worthy of the G. A. N. 
When the Daylight published an account of the Barton 
family’s good luck in Birmingham my mother cried, 
‘Hurrah for Sophy Ballington’ and showed me your 
picture in her album.” 

“You did not recognize me from that old picture, 
Mr. Gassaway?” 

“Green, Mrs. Barton, Green, not Mr. Gassaway. I 
am no Mister to the school-girl friend of my mother.” 

“Well, Green, then. I gave your mother that old 
daguerreotype long before you were born.” 



The little drummer put one arm around the magnet’s waist. 











MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 57 


“But it is still a good likeness—an excellent likeness, 
Mrs. Barton, only you look younger and better-looking, 
positively better-looking.” 

“You don’t resemble your mother, Mr.—Mr. Green?” 
said Mrs. Barton, not knowing exactly how to take the 
young man’s fervent compliment. 

“No, indeed, not at all. Mother is one of the most 
beautiful women I ever saw, you know that of course. 
I’m a Gassaway and the Gassaways never run on their 
beauty. On my mother’s side women of beauty—on my 
father’s side men of brains, writers, orators, soldiers, 
statesmen. You never saw an ugly Green woman nor a 
fool Gassaway man. Brains and beauty are united in 
our family.” 

Rhett and Clara walked to the railing, where they stood 
looking down at the steerage passengers. 

“Did you say he belonged down there?” asked Clara. 
Clara. 

“He started in the steerage. Now he is in our cabin; 
I suppose when he has finished taking pointers about 
us he will move still further up the line and take pen- 
photos of you people in the first cabin. He is writing 
a novel.” 

“If they let him go about among the different classes, 
why don’t they let you go too, Rhett?” 

“Because I don’t care to pay the difference in the 
fares, Miss Clara; I save money here, so as to see as 
much of Europe as possible.” 

“I almost envy you,” replied Clara. “You seem to 
have all the amusing people in this part of the ship; 
the passengers in the first cabin are too stiff and formal 
to be interesting. We are anxious to see your Mr. 
Blower and his Prodigies. Will they perform to-night?” 

“Yes, and the Italian girl for whose benefit the show 
is given is in great want, so don’t fail to come—make 
everybody come that you can.” 

“Grace has already attended to that. She has interested 
that English Lord; and all the snobs in our part of the 
ship will do anything he does. Mrs. Packer and her 


58 MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 


daughter are coming, so is Mr. Morton and lots of 
others.” 

“Who are Mrs. Packer and Miss Packer? Friends of 
yours ?” 

“Friends? on the contrary I don’t think they like us; 
they are from Chicago and as Grace would say, are 
‘zvickedly’ rich. Grace has such ideas about wealth. 
There are times when she feels as if we ought to divide 
our money and give most of it to poor people. She 
says we never earned it, so why should we have so much 
more than other people who work ever so much harder 
than we ever worked?” 

“But you haven’t near as much as the Packers,” re¬ 
marked Rhett. “I have heard of them, they are said to 
be among the richest people in Chicago.” 

“Yes, I reckon the Packers are lots richer than we 
are, but -that doesn’t reconcile Grace to* our newly- 
gotten money. She has a sort of leveling spirit in her, 
a feeling that we have not earned bur wealth. She 
says that there is enough in the world to make every¬ 
body comfortable if things were evenly divided.” 

“And Mrs. Packer of Chicago does not like such 
socialistic ideas?” 

“I don’t think Grace has ventilated her ideas before 
the Packers.” 

“Why then do the Packers dislike the Bartons?” 

“A sort of natural antagonism. I saw it in Mrs. Packer 
at our very first meeting.” 

“It seems to me the most natural thing in this world 
would be to like the Bartons,” said Rhett. “The Packers 
must be curious people.” 

“Not curious—only pompous. They are so proud of 
their money that they cannot forget it and will not allow 
anybody else to forget it. Their raiment is simply im¬ 
mense—Russian sables, big diamonds, gorgeous gowns. 
We wear plain traveling dresses and the Packers look 
down on us. Lord Apohaqui sits on our side of the 
table next to Grace. The Packers are as sweet as sugar 
to him; to us they are as sour as lemons.” 


MR. GREEN GASSAWAY OF LOUISIANA 59 

On their way back to their own quarters, Mrs. Barton 
replied to Clara’s question as to who “that Gassaway 
man was” by saying, “He is Dolly Green’s son.” 

“Yes, I heard him say that. But who> is Dolly Green? 
Was she really so very beautiful?” 

“Beautiful! She was as homely as a mud fence!” 

“Then this young man’s mother must be some other 
Dolly Green?” 

“No, there never was but one Dolly Green, there 
couldn’t be but one. Everybody knew her. Such a 
tombdy was never before seen, riding horses astraddle 
like a man, climbing trees and doing everything else like 
a lad. She used to be the talk of Talledega. But that 
was years before you were born. Only a blind man could 
have thought Dolly Green a beauty.” 

“That funny Mr. Gassaway isn’t blind and he thinks 
Dolly Green is still beautiful.” 

“You must remember, dear, that she is his mother. 
To a loving son all mothers are beautiful.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

LORD APOHAQUI MEETS THE AUTHOR OF THE G. A. N. 

The next afternoon Mrs. Barton and Clara agaift 
visited Rhett on the afterdeck. As they sat chatting 
in the cosy nook they saw Lord Apohaqui approaching 
with Miss Packer leaning on his arm. 

“Is that your English lord?” asked Rhett. 

“He is not our lord,” laughed Clara; “much more 
likely he is Miss Packer’s lord.” 

“He’s very handsome,” remarked Mrs. Barton. 

“Umph!” said Rhett rather cynically. “Do you think 
so?” 

“Yes, and he has good manners.” 

Another “Umph” from Rhett. 

“Don’t you like Lord Apohaqui?” asked Clara. 

“Oh, yes, as well as I like any titled man. But I 
don’t like the institution of lords.” 

Lord Apohaqui and Miss Packer were now quite near. 
Miss Packer’s round cheeks glowed like a red peony, 
her eyes sparkled and she tossed her head back proudly 
as she recognized the Bartons. “My!” she muttered in 
disgust, “there’s that Southern girl talking to a second- 
class passenger.” 

“Second-class?” said the nobleman. “I did not know 
that you had classes in your country. Are not ail people 
equal in the States?” 

“Oh, no, my lord!” cried Miss Lobelia, earnestly, 
“that is a great mistake. We have first-class people in 
America, just as you have in England; the only differ¬ 
ence is we don’t have titles. No first-class Chicago girl 
would lower herself like this!” 

It was evident to the young Englishman that Miss 
Packer wanted to turn back without speaking to the 
Barton ladies, but affecting not to* perceive her wishes 
( 60 ) 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS AUTHOR OF G. A. N. 61 

he came to a stop before the party on the other side of 
the rope, exchanged greetings, and in a minute or so 
Miss Packer and the Englishman were over the line, 
hobnobbing with the plebeian second-class passengers. 

Calhoun was introduced to Miss Packer and Gassa- 
way to the Englishman. Mr. Gassaway’s eyes beamed. 

“Pm glad to meet you, lordl You’re the first live lord 
I ever saw. How are you?” With this he seized Lord 
Apohaqui’s hand and shook it with such heartiness that 
the astonished nobleman winced with pain. 

“I say, my good fellow, that’s enough,” he muttered, 
withdrawing his crushed digits. 

“Not used to the politician shake, eh?” grinned Mr. 
Gassaway, delightedly. “Perhaps it is too strong for an 
English nob, but it is just the thing for our country. 
The political shake is an art very much in vogue among 
republican people. Americans are the champion hand¬ 
shakers of the world. Not long enough in America to 
learn it, eh?” 

“No, I have not learned it yet,” said the Englishman, 
ruefully rubbing his injured fingers. “This is my first 
lesson, and I don’t care for another.” 

“Ah, I see! Lords born to legislate don’t have to 
court the rabble. American shake means American 
votes. Every politician is a hand-shaker, from the Presi¬ 
dent down. It’s a matter of business. A good shaker 
is a good mixer and a good mixer in politics generally 
gets there. But, great Jehosaphat! the idea of being 
born to the purple, born to power. No reflection on 
you personally, lord, but, by George Washington, it’s 
a terrible system. I’d like to talk with you at length on 
this subject. I see in it some splendid pointers for the 
G. A. N.” 

“We had better return to our saloon?” whispered Lord 
Apohaqui to Mrs. Barton. “That fellow talks a little 
wildly!” 

“I agree with you,” said Mrs. Barton. “Mr. Gassa¬ 
way is not fair to the English Government. It is not 
half as tyrannical as the Yankee Government.” 


62 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS AUTHOR OF G. A. N. 


“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” cried the undaunted 
reporter, running his fingers through his stiff hair. 
“Democratic principles are always dangerous to tyranny. 
There is nothing in our government, imperfect as it is 
and must be, being the work of imperfect men, that 
is half as bad as hereditary lawmakers. Why, bless my 
soul, madam! any half-witted lord, if he has only got 
sense enough to say ‘yes’ and ‘no’, can stop the wheels of 
progress, turn back the tide of time and nullify the great 
House of Commons. Such things must make anarchists 
of the people.” 

Retreating a few feet, Mr. Gassaway intently eyed the 
Englishman, but as no answer eame he continued in 
the same vein of high feeling. 

“I am willing,” he cried, “that the world should know 
that I, Green Gassaway, of the two houses of the Greens 
and the Gassaways, best Southern blood in America, am 
now, ever have been and ever shall be, a foe to aristoc¬ 
racy in all its shapes and forms. That’s my platform, 
and long may it stand to the honor and glory of Democ¬ 
racy!” 

Thus Mr. Gassaway delivered himself. And we will 
hope he felt better thereafter; his audience had melted 
away at the first words. Lord Apohaqui offering his 
arm to Mrs. Barton, leaving Miss Packer to Clara Bar¬ 
ton. 

The fact is, the young peer thought the time had come 
to give the mother a hint as to the requirements of good 
form and the dangers attending young girls who' are 
allowed to go unchaperoned. As they walked forward 
to the saloon cabin he asked if he might venture to 
speak a word of warning? “When he sees a lady travel¬ 
ing alone, a friend may venture to speak, may he not?” 

“The lady ought to feel grateful for such kindness,” 
said Mrs. Barton. 

“You know, madam,” continued the lord somewhat 
hesitatingly, “ladies not accustomed to traveling some 
time fall in with—with travelers not exactly their equals 
socially.” 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS AUTHOR OF G. A. N. 63 


“Of course. That is to be expected/’ assented Mrs. 
Barton. 

“Now those second-class and steerage passengers— 
for instance that fellow in the peasant’s blouse-” 

“Dolly Green’s son?” interrupted Mrs. Barton. “Why, 
sir, that young man’s father is a Southern Judge, and 
Dolly Green came from an old Southern family. I knew 
his folks. Mr. Gassaway is not a real tramp, he wears 
a blouse because he is traveling to study the people.” 

Lord Apohaqui inwardly resolved that if the Barton 
girl did become Lady Apohaqui, his mother-in-law 
should be kept on the American side of the Atlantic 
if he had the power to do it. Such a woman, he told 
himself, had no right to be the mother of as beautiful 
a girl as Grace Barton. “Would a wise man scatter 
diamonds among a vulgar crowd? Would a wise mother 
put pretty girls among rude men eager to snatch them 
up?” 

“That is true/’ admitted Mrs. Barton when Lord 
Apohaqui expressed these views in the mildest way he 
could, “but I can trust my girls, anywhere and with 
anybody. They were raised in the South where men 
have the highest respect for women and where women 
learn how to command respect. Grace, you know, is 
twenty-one and can do as she pleases.” 

“An English girl, that is, a daughter of the upper 
classes, is under her mother’s wing until she is transferred 
to her husband?” 

“Dear me! What if a girl does not marry until she 
is thirty or forty*years old?” 

“Thirty or forty or a hundred, it is not godd form 
for a well born lady to. go about alone; she must be 
protected, guarded; of course the lower classes do as 
they please.” 

“How strange!” murmured Mrs. Barton, placidly. 
“Our girls are quite independent.” 

One evening after Mr. Morton and Mrs. Packer had 
dwelt upon the superiority of English customs and ways, 



64 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS AUTHOR OF G. A. N. 


Lord Apohaqui asked Grace her opinion as to the ad¬ 
vantage of a country having titles and an aristocracy. 

“I do not care for titles/’ replied Grace, “at any rate, 
not enough to live in England to get one.” 

“You do not dislike the English?” said the young lord, 
reproach in his tone and look. 

“No, but I love my own country and would not live 
in England for any title, unless perhaps for one-” 

“Oh, dear me!” scornfully cried Miss Packer. 

“What is that one?” asked Lo-rd Apohaqui. 

“That is the title of Queen. I would not live in any 
land with people held by law above me.” 

“My, what a stretcher!” exclaimed Miss Packer, add¬ 
ing in a whisper to her mother: "Any one can see, ma, 
she’s making a dead set at that lord. It’s perfectly 
shameful!” 

“I beg jour pardon, Miss Barton,” said Lord Apoha¬ 
qui, almost with a gasp, “but don’t you think your 
ambition is rather high?” 

“Perhaps,” replied Grace calmly, “but I would not 
take even the title of Queen unless with it was the 
power to turn every thing topsy-turvy, to wipe out old 
laws and make new ones, to level up, and then level 
down. Oh! it would be such delight to straighten out 
all the tangles and iniquities of the ages.” 

“And you think you are competent to do all this?” 
queried Lord Apohaqui, looking at Grace with wonder 
and amusement. 

“Well, at all events I should try. I should have the 
wisest people make the laws. Would it be possible to 
make matters worse than they are now?” 

Mrs. Packer sat bolt upright in her chair, raised her 
tortoise shell lorgnettes to her eyes and looked at Grace, 
a deep frown on her brow. “Such sentiments are anar¬ 
chistic,” she said. “I hope, my lord, you do not imagine 
the society people of America have such shocking opin¬ 
ions.” Triumphantly Mrs. Packer took her departure, 
followed by her daughter. 

“Mrs. Packer is so fond of titles,” said Grace, “I feai 



LORD APOHAQUI MEETS AUTHOR OF G. A. N. 65 

that she thinks ill of me for not agreeing with her. It 
is the hereditary part that I don’t like. In the South 
the men are all titled and the women are all American 
Princesses, but this homage is offered as a sort of tribute 
to individual manhood and womanhood.” 

“I don’t mind your disliking titles as long as you don’t 
include the owners of them,” said Lord Apohaqui. 

“I promise not to do that,” laughed Grace. ”1 like the 
English. I feel near kin to them. My great-great¬ 
grandfather came over from England.” 

“In the Mayflower?” 

“Mayflower?” scornfully. 

“I beg your pardon. I fancied that the Mayflower 
was a kind of Holy Ark to Americans.” 

“It is to Yankees.” 

“Are you not a Yankee?” 

The look which Grace gave by way of reply to this 
question startled the Englishman. “I beg your pardon, 
Miss Barton,” he stammered. “In England we think 
of all Americans as Yankees. I did not know there was 
any difference.” 

“The Yankees are proud of the Mayflower and cele¬ 
brate every anniversary of its arrival at Plymouth Rock, 
but Southerners are not interested in that old boat at 
all, not in the least.” 

“You make me ashamed of my ignorance,” remarked 
Lord Apohaqui. “I had no idea there was such a differ¬ 
ence between the Mayflower people and the people of 
your State. I shall get an American history the moment 
we land.” 

“Do,” coolly assented the girl, “and be sure you get 
a Southern history. The Yankee histories are too one¬ 
sided. If you depend upon them you will never get the 
truth about the war.” 

“What war?” 

“Why our war, of course,” said Grace who forgot 
that England always has some war on hand and that 
consequently the expression “The war” conveys no such 
definite meaning to an Englishman’s mind as it does 


66 LORD APOHAQUI MEETS AUTHOR OF G. A. N. 

to an American’s. “Didn’t you ever hear how the Yan¬ 
kees fought us for four years and ruined our country?’ 1 

“I—er—I believe I have.” 

“Well, you don’t suppose they would have treated us 
that way had we been Yankees? You have no idea how 
terribly they treated us. Papa was a cotton planter. 
The war ruined him and nearly everybody else in 
Alabama.” 

This sweeping sketch of history dazed the Englishman; 
he comprehended little of the history, but he understood 
well the beauty of the historian, and the more this beauty 
impressed him the more he deplored the terrible de¬ 
mocracy in which she appeared to revel. 

“Do you agree with Mrs. Packer in thinking me an 
anarchist?” asked Grace, instinctively, realizing the 
nature of Lord Apohaqui’s thoughts. 

“Why do you imagine such a thing?” 

“I see that you think me very—very—what shall I 
say? Bold?” 

“Oh, no, not that! I have never thought you bold.” 

“Well, unconventional. English girls don’t go out 
on deck alone?” 

“No, they do not,” replied Lord Apohaqui reluctantly. 

“You say that as if you wished they did.” 

“It would be very pleasant if they did.” 

“You mean pleasant for men?” 

“Yes.” 

“But not for women?” 

“•For those who like it—yes.” 

“American girls have decided ideas. If English girls 
like to play baby, we won’t complain, but we don’t 
mean to coop ourselves up. When we want fresh air 
we are not afraid to go and get it. Why should we be? 
No savages on this ship?” 

“One’s mother or sister might go too,” hazarded the 
young lord. 

“Of course it would be pleasanter if the mother or 
sister wanted to go. But it would be very hard on a 
mother to follow a grown-up daughter about as if she 


LORD APOHAQUI MEETS AUTHOR OF G. A. N. 67 


were a three year old child liable to slip through the 
railings/’ 

“Democrat—Anarchist—whatever she is,” said the 
young Englishman to himself, “she’s the brightest girl 
I ever saw. If I thought my mother could tone down 
her Americanisms I’d offer her myself and title to¬ 
morrow!” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES. 

Lord Apohaqui tried in the most delicate way to in¬ 
duce Mrs. Barton to exercise a more careful control 
over her daughters, but in spite of all he said—and he 
said enough to frighten any English mother into the 
most circumspect behavior—the Bartons persisted in 
their determination to attend the performances of Mr. 
Blower’s Prodigies in the second cabin. 

“It’s a deuced bore,” muttered Mr. Montrose Morton 
as they stood in the cabin waiting for the ladies; “the 
whole set over there are a common crowd or they would¬ 
n’t be traveling second-class. I don’t see how refined 
women care to mix with them.” 

“I suppose it amuses them,” said Lord Apohaqui, 
who did not care to express his disapproval to 1 Mr. 
Morton. 

In a few minutes Mrs. Packer sailed in, followed by 
her daughter, both regally arrayed, diamonds blazing in 
their ears and at their throats. 

“My dear Lord Apohaqui,” cried Mrs. Packer, tugging 
at her glove, “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting! Shall 
we start right off?” 

“The other ladies will be in soon. We may as well 
all go together,” said the Englishman. 

Mrs. Packer would have been better pleased if she 
and her daughter could have gone on with the two men, 
leaving the others to follow as they liked. After ten 
minutes the three Bartons strolled in, calm and serene 
as if they had not wickedly kept people waiting. Mrs. 
Packer was indignant. 

“You are not very punctual, Miss Barton,” she said 
to Grace who happened to be nearest. 


( 68 ) 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


69 


“Oh, yes, Mrs. Packer,” replied Grace, smiling sweetly, 
“I am considered a very model of punctuality.” 

“I never saw a more brazen piece of impertinence,” 
thought Mrs. Packer; aloud she said, with dignity; “My 
lord, will you lead the way?” 

Lord Apohaqui was standing near Mrs. Packer who 
consequently was not a little surprised and disappointed 
when the Englishman stepped forward and offered his 
arm to Mrs. Barton. Mr. Morton offered his arm to 
Mrs. Packer; the three young girls were left to look 
after themselves. Following them came Agnes Allan, 
Mrs. Barton’s maid, and a dozen, or two other first-class 
passengers who wanted to see Mr. Blower’s wonderful 
“Aggregation of Prodigies.” 

The saloon of the second cabin was filled with rows 
of chairs occupied for the most part by the second-class 
passengers; one row was reserved for the visitors from 
the other part of the ship. At the far end of the cabin, 
partially screened by the piano, was Mr. Richard Blower 
and his prodigies; near by stood Green Gassaway, his 
eyes glowing with excitement. He no- longer wore the 
German workman’s blouse. In honor of the occasion 
he had donned an ordinary gray^ suit which, as Mrs. 
Barton rightly observed, made him look more like a 
decent Southern gentleman. Mr. Blower, manager 
of the American Prodigies, was fully forty-five years old 
but unlike Mr. Moreton he neither showed nor felt the 
signs of approaching age. Hale, hearty, robust, Mr. 
Blower was dark skinned; his coarse hair was long and 
coal black; both skin and hair seemed to exude oil; his 
prodigies said it was the oil of jollity, for Mr. Blower 
carried jollity wherever he went; he was the natural foe 
to melancholy; always sanguine, though not always suc¬ 
cessful. He was now on his way to Europe for the pur¬ 
pose of exhibiting his “Prodigies” before “the Dukes 
and Duchesses and crowned heads.” 

“Not,” said Mr. Blower confidentially to Mr. Green 
Gassaway, “not that I value the opinions of crowned 
heads more than I do the opinions of any of America’s 


70 MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 

seventy million sovereigns; but Mr. Gassaway, the world 
is still full of snobs; snobs run in the wake of kings; 
kings applaud; ditto snobs; ergo, the thing is to gain the 
good will of kings. That is what I am going to do now. 
As soon as the Dukes and Duchesses and Queen of 
England run after my Prodigies the rabble will run too.” 

“There’s the English lord,” whispered Gassaway. Mr. 
Blower stepped forward. 

“Welcome, my lord! I am honored and delighted to 
see you.” 

When all the party were seated Mr. Blower rubbed 
his hands and beamed; each one of the audience was 
good for at least fifty cents and Mr. Blower determined 
that a collection should be taken at once. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried in stentorian tones, 
“the Arkansaw strong girl will now act as Charity’s 
maid. Each lord and lady is expected to contribute 
from fifty cents up to—There is absolutely no limit to 
the upward rise of the contributions, the higher you go 
the better for the poor Signora Satoli and her sick and 
starving parents in Milan.” 

From the stool on the other side of the piano majestic¬ 
ally arose a female form; and slowly, as became majesty, 
there stepped to the front a woman upon whom all eyes 
at once became fixed. It was as if some grand goddess 
from the old Pagan world had come down from her 
pedestal and stood before that assembly, beautiful, per¬ 
fectly moulded, kindliness beaming from her face. Mr. 
Gassaway seemed as much interested in the success of 
the show as Mr. Blower himself; he keenly enjoyed the 
sensation which the sight of the Arkansaw Strong Girl 
caused. His eyes exultingly flashed from the woman to 
the crowd and back to the woman again. Mr. Blower’s 
face shone and his jovial eyes twinkled as he marked 
the effect his “Prodigy” created. 

“My lord, ladies and gents,” he cried, “the Arkansaw 
Strong Girl will now take up a collection. Go ahead, 
Sail!” 

“Honor me,” cried Mr. Gassaway, with a courtly bow, 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


71 


as he offered the Prodigy his soft felt hat. The Arkansaw 
Strong Girl took the hat with the grand composure of 
a queen and proceeded to pass it from one spectator to 
another. 

“Juno herself,” muttered the English lord as the 
monocle fell from his right eye. 

“Magnificent,” chimed in Mr. Morton. 

“A flower from the glorious South,” cried Mr. Gassa- 
way with a burst of pent-up patriotism. “The greatest 
country on earth! Land of fair women and brave men! 
Arkansaw takes the cake, she does!” 

“Takes all in sight and holds all she can,” muttered a 
sneering voice in the rear. Rhett Calhoun and Grace 
Barton glanced over their shoulders and saw a pair of 
envious eyes glinting satirically at the author of the 
prospective G. A. N. 

“Who is he?” asked Grace in a whisper. 

“Oh,” laughed Rhett, “he is a snappy little drummer 
for an electric belt or something of the kind.” 

“What is there between him and Mr. Gassaway?” 

“A natural antagonism, I suppose. Gassaway’s brag¬ 
ging about the South irritates the little drummer, who 
thinks his part of the earth the hub of the universe.” 

“From Boston?” 

“Yes, at any rate from New England. He snarls and 
snaps whenever he gets near Gassaway. I was afraid 
yesterday our friend would grab him by his hair and toss 
him overboard.” 

“Six feet if she’s an inch,” burst out Gassaway, ad¬ 
miringly, as he watched the Strong Girl’s slow, stately 
movements. 

“Strapping backwoods wench!” muttered the drummer 
of electric belts. 

“Did you speak, sir?” demanded Gassaway sharply. 

“I guess I’ve a right to speak on this ship,” said the 
drummer. “I’ve paid my passage and have as much 
right here as anybody.” 

“Oh!” cried Mr. Gassaway, “you have paid your pas- 


72 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


sage, eh? I am glad to hear it. Some fellows try to beat 
their way.” 

The electric belt drummer frowned but made no reply. 
The coins jingled musically as the hat went around. 
Lord Apohaqui dropped in a sovereign. Mr. Morton, 
not to be outdone, put in a five dollar gold piece. 
Whether fifty dollars or fifty cents went into the hat 
seemed to make no difference to the Arkansaw Strong 
Girl; the calm self-possession of her grand face remained 
undisturbed by smile or frown. Mr. Blower counted the 
collection and, with delight in his face, announced the 
result; it passed fifty dollars. 

“My lord, ladies and gentlemen, you have done well, 
exceedingly well. In the name of Signorina Satoli and 
her dependent parents I thank you a thousand thanks 
for your generosity. And now our Prodigies will try to 
entertain, edify and instruct you. The Magnetic Mag¬ 
nolia from Georgia will distribute the programmes.” 

From behind the piano shyly came a slim little maiden, 
apparently not more than seventeen years old; her hair, 
tied with blue ribbon, hung down her back, her blue 
eyes were soft and, as Mr. Gassaway put it, “extremely 
fetching.” The programmes distributed by this dainty 
specimen of femininity, had been written by no less a 
person than the author of the G. A. N., read as follows: 

BLOWER’S UNRIVALED AGGREGATION OF AMER¬ 
ICAN PRODIGIES. 

1. Miss Sal Horton, the Arkansaw Strong Girl:— 

Miss Horton can lift 1,000 pounds as gracefully as you can 
lift a kitten. $1,000 to any man on the ship who can out- 
lift the Arkansaw Strong Girl. 

2. Jake Nye, Wyoming’s Western Wonder:— 

$1,000 to any man or woman in the world who can out- 
laugh Jake. Jake’s laugh shakes the Rocky Mountains’ 
tops; the most thunderous, wonderful laugh mortal man 
ever conceived. 

3. Miss Magnetic Magnolia, of Georgia:— 

Miss Magnolia challenges the power of any five men on 
the ship to budge her one inch when she is properly in¬ 
sulated. $1,000 to any man who can resist this wonderful 
human magnet. 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


73 


hf. Sam, tke Human Gorilla, from the Sierras:— 

The only living Gorilla who speaks the English language. 
$1,000 to any man who can produce Sam’s equal. 

5. Miss Mandy Tandy, of Texas:— 

The only woman in the world who completely hides her¬ 
self in her own hair; a cataract of capillary appendage. 

6. Alta-Ma-Toxa, last of the Cave Dwellers; captured in the 

wilds of Arizona; himself a dwarf, and king of the Dwarf 
Cave Dwellers of Arizona. 

7. Wal-wal-lah, Chief of the Apaches:— 

Wal-wal-lah, like David, has slain his thousands; the 
'fiercest Indian ever captured; for each of his victims slain 
Wal-wal-lah wears a feather in his cap; the cap, with 1,209 
feathers, is on exhibition. $1,000 to any crowned King or 
Queen in Europe whose cap contains more feathers than 
Wal-wal-lah’s. 

There was much laughing and talking over this re¬ 
markable programme. The electric belt drummer 
showed a disposition to belittle the whole affair, especi¬ 
ally that portion relating to Miss Magnetic Magnolia. 

“Five men, indeed?” he said, as he eyed the slim little 
maiden from Georgia. “I’ll stake my bottom dollar I 
can lift her out of her boots the first pop.” 

“You must go for that $1,000, then,” laughed Rhett. 

‘Til for it if the fellow has got that much, which of 
course he hasn’t. It’s clear as day the whole show is 
a fake.” 

“Hides herself in her own hair, I don’t believe it, do 
you, ma?” cried Miss Lobelia. 

“Of course it is a trick,” returned Mrs. Packer, tartly; 
she had not quite gotten over the nobleman’s bad taste 
in taking Mrs. Barton under his protection. 

“What I want to see,” said Mr. Morton, solemnly, 
“is the laughing man. I never before heard of a Cham¬ 
pion Laugher.” 

“My lord, ladies and gents,” resumed the genial show¬ 
man, “we are to-night honored by the presence of a 
member of Britain’s proud aristocracy, the first heredi¬ 
tary peer of the English House of Lords in the presence 
of whom we have ever had the honor to perform; but I 
may confidently predict by no means the last. In fact, 


74 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


I may state that my principal purpose in taking the 
Prodigies to Europe is to show them off before the 
Queen and the crowned heads of the Continent. In 
addition to England’s nobleman we have to-night the 
proud honor to number in the audience Mr. Montrose 
Morton, that distinguished member of New York’s 
famous 400; also the well-known Mrs. Packer and 
daughter, widow and daughter of the King Pork Man 
of Chicago'; there are also with us three distinguished 
representatives of a famous old Southern family, the 
Bartons of Alabama, the very flowers of Southern aris¬ 
tocracy, the widow and daughters of the renowned 
General Barton, the first millionaire produced by the 
New South.” 

“Millionaires?” muttered Mrs. Packer, “I don’t believe 
one word of it.” 

“Of course not,” returned Miss Lobelia. “You can see 
from their clothes they ain’t much. That oldest girl 
looks exactly like a school teacher.” 

“Who can have told that man about us?” asked Grace, 
in a whisper to Rhett. 

“Certainly not I,” said Rhett, laughing. “You have 
got a good send-off as an heiress and now the fortune^ 
hunters will swarm about you like flies.” 

The performance was begun by the magnetic girl from 
Georgia who softly glided to the middle of the floor, 
slim, shy, blushing beneath the eyes fixed upon her. 
The Arkansaw Strong Girl stepped to the side of the 
little Magnet. 

“Miss Horton,” said Mr. Blower, “see if you can lift 
Miss Magnolia.” 

The Arkansaw Strong Girl lifted the slim Georgia 
girl as easily as she would have lifted a kitten. She 
carried her back and forth two or three times, then set 
her down and the two girls stood side by side, as strongly 
contrasting each other as two young women possibly 
could. 

“Now,” said Mr. Blower, with a deep roll of voice 
that carried conviction wherever it reached, “Miss 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


75 


Magnetic Magnolia possesses the curious, and I may 
say the unrivalled, power of putting on and off at will 
that strange and subtle fluid called magnetism 1 . At 
present, not having put on the fluid, she can be handled 
easily by Miss Horton or by any one of ordinary 
strength. But observe the difference when in her mag¬ 
netic state. Proceed, Miss Magnolia.” 

. The process of insulation seemed simple; all the girl 
I seemed to do was to stand still a moment as if collecting 
her thoughts; then a faint shudder crept over her. 

“Ready?” asked the manager. The Magnet nodded 
her head. 

“Now,” continued Mr. Blower, “Miss Horton will try 
to lift the magnet from the floor; proceed, Miss Horton.” 

The Arkansaw Strong Girl placed her shapely hands 
under the slim girl’s arms and tried, or appeared to try, 
to lift her; the slim girl stood like a post. 

“Put out all your strength, Miss Horton.” 

Miss Horton appeared to do her best. The veins in 
her Juno-like neck swelled, her face flushed but the 
little, slim girl stood as firm as an iron post driven deep 
in the earth. 

“I know I could lift that little thing,” said Miss Packer. 

“Of course you could,” assented Mr. Montrose Mor¬ 
ton. “It’s all a trick, you know.” 

“Very clever,” said Lord Apohaqui. 

“Getting money under false pretenses, I call it,” said 

the little electric belt drummer. “I’ve a mind to expose 
>_„ >> 
em. 

“Do,” encouraged Rhett, glancing over his shoulder 
at the bagman who seemed to have a personal spite at 
the manager as well as at Gassaway. 

“I’ll bet,” said the drummer, “the fellow won’t let any 
outsider try to lift that little thing. He knows it’s dead 
easy!” 

The Arkansaw Strong Girl was still struggling to lift 
the human magnet. “Can’t you do it, Miss Horton?” 
asked Mr. Blower, with a proud smile. 

“It can’t be done,” returned the Strong Girl in the 


76 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


strong sonorous tones of the backwoods of the West. 
Everybody stared; it was the first time they had heard 
her voice and somehow it seemed as strange to them 
as if a goddess had spoken in vulgar English. 

“Stuff and nonsense/’ muttered the traveling man. 
“Any fool knows that giantess can swing that little girl 
around with one finger if she really wanted to.” 

The Arkansaw Strong Girl gave him a glance of calm, 
goddesslike scorn. “Mebbe the gentleman can do it 
himself,” she said with a grand indifference that put 
the little drummer on his mettle. 

“I guess I can, dead easy,” he replied. 

“Kindly try it, sir,” said Mr. Blower softly. “Do try, 
sir.” 

The little drummer stepped forward, put one arm 
around the magnet’s waist and tried to lift her from the 
floor. To his surprise her feet did not move a hair’s 
breadth; then he took a fresh grip with both hands. 
His face turned red, he tugged and pulled, but to no 
purpose. Finally when quite out of breath, he stood 
still panting and eying the girl angrily. 

“There’s a trick in it somewhere,” he said 
mopping his face. “I’m sure there’s a trick and I’ll 
bet I’m the man to get at it.” With that he began 
again, so roughly that the manager cried out sharply, 
“Don’t hurt the girl. I won’t have her rudely treated.” 

“You’ve got her feet fastened to the floor,” said the 
fellow, sulkily. 

“Miss Magnolia,” said Mr. Blower, “kindly move a few 
feet and let the gentleman see that you are not rooted 
to the spot.” 

The girl moved and the little drummer, taking a long 
look at the slim form, went at it again, but he only 
grew redder in the face and still more out of breath. 

“I know there’s some trick,” he said gloomily, as he 
wiped his perspiring forehead. 

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Blower, triumphantly, “on the 
honor of a showman it is no trick, but a powerful, 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


71 


mysterious magnetic force. Any of you can try for 
yourselves.” 

“Magnetic nonsense!” muttered the traveling man. 
“It’s a fraud. He wouldn’t be allowed to get money 
in my State under such rank false pretenses. 

“What is your State, sir?” asked Mr. Blower, suavely. 

“The great State of Massachusetts, the Old Bay State, 
sir.” 

“Ah, indeed? Massachusetts? I had the pleasure of 
exhibiting my Prodigies in Boston last year. We had 
a very successful season there, sir. The magnetic Mag¬ 
nolia was a universal favorite. And so was the Arkansaw 
Strong Girl. How many offers of marriage did you get 
in Boston, Miss Horton?” 

The Juno-like girl from Arkansaw smiled, showing a 
set of unrivalled white teeth, but she disdained to reply. 

“Now,” continued Mr. Blower, eyeing the little drum¬ 
mer good-humoredly, “I guess you’re about the strong¬ 
est man present. Miss Magnolia is the smallest lady. 
What will you bet she can’t drive you around this saloon 
with her little finger?” 

“Ten to one! Stake your money,” promptly cried the 
doubting drummer. 

“All right, and the winnings to gO' to the Sailors’ 
Fund.” 

The money was placed with Lord Apohaqui, then 
Blower called for a chair and requested the drummer 
to be seated. “Miss Magnolia, try your powers. Are 
you in good condition?” 

“I think so,” answered the little Magnet shyly. 

“All right. See if you can lift the gentleman.” 

Miss Magnolia clutched one of the chair rungs with 
her little right hand and lifted it with the drummer on 
the seat about eight inches from the floor, then let it 
drop with a bang so sudden that its occupant tumbled 
out on the floor on his all fours. Everybody laughed. 

“Oh!” cried the Magnetic Girl in an apologetic tone, 
“the chair slipped. I’ll do better next time. Get on 
again, sir. I’ll set you up on top of the piano.” 


78 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


The drummer scrambled to his feet and refused to 
sit on the chair again. “It’s a trick/’ he muttered. 
'‘She’s got a confederate concealed somewhere.” 

“Miss Magnolia,” said the manager in great good 
humor, “since the gentleman doesn’t wish the chair ex¬ 
ercise again, perhaps you will be good enough to lead 
him around the saloon.” 

“I’ll be blowed if she does,” cried the drummer, start¬ 
ing to make off; but the Magnet pointed her finger at 
him and he stood still. 

“Don’t let her get away with you like that, sir,” said 
Mr. Blower. “Don’t let a little girl like that hold you. 
Go on, sir! Take your place among the audience. Do, 
sir! Don’t mind that little girl’s finger, it’s so very little.” 

The drummer’s desperate efforts to escape, and the 
Magnet’s little finger controlling him like a magic wand, 
were both so ridiculous that everybody roared with 
laughter. 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Blower, pityingly, “she’s treat¬ 
ing you badly, sir. Now do, Miss Magnolia, drop your 
finger and let the gentleman return to his seat.” 

Miss Magnolia, however, walked round and round the 
saloon, beckoning with her little finger to the drummer 
to follow; and follow he did amid roars of laughter. 
After one or two circuits the girl motioned to the center 
of the room and there he stood. 

“Well, well, sir,” exclaimed Blower, compassionately, 
“can’t you break away? Try, sir. Exert yourself, do. 
Don’t let her trot you about in that way! Brace your¬ 
self firmly on your feet! Look her in the eye! That’s 
it. Now you’ve got her!” 

Thus encouraged, the victim planted himself firmly on 
the floor, his feet half-a-yard apart, and glared at the 
slim little magnetic girl with a resolve so desperate and 
angry that everybody again broke into a laugh. Gassa- 
way clapped his hands and shouted, “Hurrah for the 
Georgia girl!” The Magnet stole shyly up to her un¬ 
willing slave, laid the rosy tip of her little forefinger on 
his shoulder and back he went despite the most furious 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 79 

struggles to stand still; back he went, all around the 
saloon. 

“My! my!” said Blower in a deprecating voice. “Why 
do you submit to such a little creature? Why don’t 
you exert your strength? Brace up! do brace up!” 

The audience was convulsed with laughter. The vic¬ 
tim was furious; indeed, his anger was so great, his 
struggle to resist so apparent, many thought he was only 
acting a part. 

“Come now,” said Rhett, when finally the electric belt 
drummer was released from the Little Magnet’s power, 
“confess, are you not one of Mr. Blower’s set?” 

“Of course he is,” said Mr. Gassaway. “Didn’t you 
see Blower wink at him?” 

“Wink, the devil!” exclaimed the irate drummer. “It’s 
the d-est fraud I ever saw in all my life.” 

Just then the Strong Girl, catching a look of scorn¬ 
ful skepticism in his eyes, stretched out her hand, 
clutched the little drummer’s waist band and before he 
had time to realize it she whirled him above her head, 
his arms and legs sprawling wildly in the air. The little 
man’s intense rage and violent but futile resistance were 
so comic that the suspicion that he was a confederate 
was loudly proclaimed, in spite of the wretched fellow’s 
indignant protest. 

One after the other of the “Prodigies” came forward. 
The girl who hid herself in her hair was of course the 
wonder of the Jadies. A committee examined the hair 
and the head to see if the two belonged, naturally, to 
each other. The hair was pulled to see if it could be 
detached, the scalp was critically eyed and when all was 
pronounced genuine, the girl stood in the center of the 
saloon, shook out her mass of chestnut hair and really 
did hide herself completely underneath its flowing folds, 
so that she looked like a small hay stack. 

Next^Mr. Blower introduced Jake Nye, the champion 
laugher* of the world. The man looked not only as if 
he had never laughed in his life, but as if he could not 
even smile. He was tall, lank, cadaverous, his jaws 



80 


MR. BLOWER’S PRODIGIES 


were leathern and hollow, his eyes deep set and small, 
his whole aspect was dismal, to the extreme. 

“Mr. Nye,” said Mr. Blower, addressing the Prodigy, 
“please favor us with a laugh, not one of your strongest 
specimens—the saloon is too small. A large sized laugh 
might have an unfavorable effect on the motion of the 
ship. A third-class laugh will do.” 

The laugher began to open his mouth; it was a slow, 
deliberate operation. The laugh began as Mr. Blower 
requested with a moderate sound but wider and wider 
opened the mouth and louder and louder came out the 
laugh until the man’s face seemed to become all mouth, 
and the sound issuing thence seemed to fill all space. 
At first people stared, then they stopped their ears and 
gazed awe-struck at the curious Prodigy. Mr. Blower’s 
eyes twinkled with delight. 

“My lord, ladies and gents,” he cried. “This is Mr. 
Nye’s third-class specimen. In a large hall he would 
disdain to call this a laugh. Mr. Nye’s first-class efforts 
are something unique, but a first-class laugh in a third- 
class room—really it wouldn’t be safe, there’d be an ex¬ 
plosion and the woodwork would be torn and splintered. 
And with this hearty laugh, my lord, ladies and gentle¬ 
men, let us close the show. It is late. Many thanks, 
and good-night.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS. 

Before the Etruria’s voyage ended, Lord Apohaqui had 
many misgivings as to- whether Grace possessed that 
plastic nature which might be moulded into English 
good form. Notwithstanding this drawback, he did not 
relinquish the idea of making her his wife; in fact he 
discovered to his dismay that it would go hard with 
him tO' give her up. Her beauty was something extra¬ 
ordinary ; and beauty is power, especially when combined 
with wealth and social station. She had the wealth; 
he could give her the social station. In one of his con¬ 
versations with the Barton family he expressed a desire 
to have them visit his country seat. “Not that it is any¬ 
thing grand,” he said, “but Falmouth is in a pretty bit 
of country, and you might like to see how they built 
houses three hundred years ago. It has been in our 
family since 1595.” 

“1595?” cried Grace. “We never have seen a house 
that old. America was filled with Indians when your 
house was built, and the few white people in our country 
had to live in forts to keep from being scalped.” 

“It will be quite an experience for the girls to' see such 
an old house,” said Mrs. Barton. 

“You have never been out of America before?” 

“Never before the day this ship sailed out of New 
York,” replied Grace gaily. 

“Well,” continued Lord Apohaqui, “after you have 
seen ruins three thousand years old you will think Eng¬ 
lish houses quite modern.” 

“We have plenty of old ruins in our own country,” 
asserted Grace, “ruins ever so many thousand years old.” 

“Indeed? I did not know America had ruins.” 

“Yes, of an unknown people, the mound makers and 

( 81 ) 


82 LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 


the Cliff Dwellers. Many strange relics have been dis¬ 
covered in their mounds and cliff houses.” 

“Very interesting,” said Lord Apohaqui, although in 
truth he took not the slightest interest in American 
antiquities. “The old castle I will show you is rather 
rickety, still we have a few rooms that are habitable. 
My mother is now in London and will be happy to chap¬ 
erone you down for a few days.” 

On his arriving in London, as soon as he had seen 
the Bartons safe to the Metropole hotel, Lord Apohaqui 
sought his mother’s apartments on Great Barrington 
Square. 

It often happens that first sons, heirs to English titles, 
have an overweening estimate of their own importance 
and in consequence come to feel themselves the natural 
superiors of the other members of the family. From 
earliest infancy the first son is made conscious of the 
fact that everything is for him; his is the title, his the 
estate, his the high honors without the least effort to 
win them. Younger brothers and sisters know that some 
day they will have to pack up, bag and baggage, and 
leave their ancestral home as unceremoniously as an im¬ 
pecunious guest is made to leave an hotel. Even the 
mother who bore him knows that her station is inferior 
to his. Mother and brothers and sisters are all mere 
sojourners in the family castle. What wonder then that 
eldest sons too often become puffed up with the idea 
of their own superiority? What wonder that they show 
too scant respect and affection to mothers and brothers 
and sisters? 

Lord Apohaqui was njot naturally hard or unfeeling. 
Had he been bom a plain, untitled man, doubtless he 
would have been as good if not better than the average 
specimen of manhood. He loved his mother, but, like 
a Turk, he was somewhat ashamed to show affection for 
a creature not born his equal. His naturally kind nature 
had remained dwarfed through the unnatural position of 
superiority to which he had been born. 

It was not yet the first of June, and the air was a 


LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 83 

trifle sharp. Lord Apohaqui stood with his back to a 
glowing fire, his hands under his coat tails, enjoying 
the warmth after his drive from the Metropole to his 
mother’s apartments on Great Barrington Square. His 
eyes were fixed on a picture that hung on the opposite 
wall, painted years ago when the original was in the full 
bloom of her proud beauty. 

“The American girl,” he mused, “is fully as beautiful, 
though of course not so grand looking. What will she 
•say of Grace Barton I wonder? A year’s training under 
my mother’s care would make her the equal of any 
Duchess in the kingdom—that is if she will only take 
the training.” At this moment the door opened and the 
original of the portrait entered arrayed in hat and gloves 
and semi-evening dress. “Ah, you have come at last?” 
said Lord Apohaqui stepping forward and pressing his 
lips to his mother’s cheeks. 

“Yes,” returned Lady Apohaqui, laying her hat on 
the table and beginning to remove her gloves. “I was 
at Lady Critten’s. Have you waited long?” 

“Since five o’clock; it is now nearly six.” 

“I am sorry. You should have sent me word. I did 
not know you were coming.” 

“Of course not. I did not know myself. We only 
got in at two.” 

“Got in where?” 

“Charing Cross Station. The steamer threw her 
anchor at nine this morning; rather late, still I managed 
to catch the Liverpool Flyer, so here I am. You knew 
I had been in America?” 

“Yes, I knew,” replied Lady Apohaqui, tossing her 
gloves on the table by the hat and seating herself in a 
big Turkish chair. “I knew, but no thanks to you. Mr. 
Alonzo Wookey came to ask about you; he said he had 
not had a word from you since you left. You may 
imagine how pleasant it: was for me to be obliged to 
say that I did not even know you had gone.” 

“That’s just like that fool Wookey! Why couldn’t 


84 LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 


he hold his tongue? Did he think I meant to cut and 
run?” 

“Then you owe Wookey also?” said his mother, coldly. 

“Of course, but that is no' reason why he should think 
I meant to clear out. Did he tell you why I had gone 
to America?” 

“Certainly not. When he found you had kept it secret 
from me he pretended it was all a mistake—said you 
were merely joking when you mentioned America to 
him and were probably having a lark in Paris.” 

“I repeat it, Wookey is a fool. Why the deuce should 
he think I meant to keep it a secret from you?” 

“His supposition was quite natural,” replied Lady 
Apohaqui, dryly. “If you did not mean to keep it a 
secret, why was it kept a secret?” 

“There wasn’t time to tell. I left suddenly.” 

“It must have been sudden indeed—as sudden as your 
return. You have not been away six weeks. You have 
run through your money; you pay no< debts. Do you 
not know that these erratic trips cost pretty sums? It 
seems to me, Charles, as if your last shred of common 
sense has departed. Where will your folly end?” 

“In marriage to an American heiress if you will only 
give me a lift, mother.” 

“So that is your game, is it?” 

“Yes, that is my game. You said I must marry money. 
If possible I would like the money I marry annexed to 
a young and pretty girl. My run to America was on 
business.” 

“You have done so many foolish things, Charles, I 
naturally thought this American jaunt-” 

“Yes, I admit all the folly charged; but you know, 
mother, I don’t love Yankees enough to travel among 
them merely for pleasure; I was in search of an heiress.” 

“Have you found her?” 

“I have found her—young, lovely, rich; but I need 
a lift to go in and win.” 

“Your ‘lift’ means money?” 



LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 85 


“Of course. You know what straits I am in. If I 
succeed you will never be bothered by me again.” 

“I forestalled two quarters’ allowance for you once 
before,” said Lady Apohaqui. 

“Yes, two years ago. You’ve done precious little for 
me since. If it hadn’t been for Alonzo Wookey I should¬ 
n’t have been able to go to New York. I owed him three 
thousand pounds then and to make it five he loaned me 
two more.” 

“What a fool he must be!” 

“On the contrary, he showed pretty shrewd sense, in 
this case. He threw the last two thousand to get back 
the first three. I expect you to be as wise as Wookey. 
I owe you £1,500. I must have £1,000 more or my chance 
is gone. Stand by me and you will get back every shilling 
I owe you.” 

For a moment Lady Apohaqui gazed at her son in 
silence. “You know my resolve,” she said. “If I 
thought you really capable of being helped I would 
again pinch myself to help you, but I won’t throw my 
money into a sieve.” 

Leaving this fling unheeded, Lord Apohaqui pro¬ 
ceeded to relate what he knew about the Bartons and the 
relations with them which he had succeeded in establish¬ 
ing aboard the Etruria. Lady Apohaqui’s interest in¬ 
creased as her son’s narrative progressed. When he 
concluded by stating that he had left the Barton family 
at the Metropole, she leaned back in her chair to think 
the situation over. 

“I don’t like American girls,” she said finally. “They 
are too forward, too aggressive.” 

“That is certainly a drawback,” assented her son, “but 
we cannot expect perfection and money too. This girl 
is young enough to become Anglicized if you will only 
take her under your wing.” 

“Some Americans are incapable of ever acquiring good 
form,” observed the Countess. “I read a book by one 
of those people, a book by a man named Henry Jones 
or James or some such name. The Duchess of Bar- 


86 LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 


borough got it when Lord Defreese, her third son, was 
about to marry an American. The Duchess wanted to 
see what American girls are like; I don’t understand 
how she ever consented to Lord Defreese’s marriage 
after reading that book.” 

“Why so?” 

“The novel—it is a novel—shows so plainly how vul¬ 
gar and loud American girls are. The American heroine 
does all sorts of terrible things, boating and driving and 
promenading at midnight in the Coliseum with Italian 
adventurers. And Jones or James, or whoever the 
author is, says that is the way all American girls behave. 
As the author is an American, I suppose he knows.” 

“What is the use rubbing it in on a fellow in this 
way?” testily asked Lord Apohaqui. “Of course I know 
American girls are not reared like the English. They 
have never been taught what we call good form. I dare 
say they despise it, republicans naturally do; but a man 
would rather marry youth and beauty and—and money 
than all the good form England ever saw.” 

“A woman wouldn’t,” retorted the Countess. 

“I know. You women attach more weight to manners 
than to morals.” 

“Charles!” cried his mother, reprovingly. 

“Well, some of you do, you won’t deny that. At 
any rate, as I am to do the marrying I presume I may 
be allowed to do the choosing.” 

“But you ask me to receive her, to take her about, 
to introduce her into society. Think of my feelings 
if she be one of those vulgar creatures. I am told that 
one day at dinner, Lord Defreese’s American wife actu¬ 
ally asked for a toothpick. Think of it—a toothpick!” 
Lady Apohaqui shuddered at the dreadful recpllection. 

“I have not seen anything so vulgar as tliat in Miss 
Barton’s table manners,” said her son in all seriousness. 
“My seat was next to hers in the dining saloon. There 
was nothing unusual in her behavior.” 

“Perhaps the girl was on her best behavior,” returned 
the skeptical mother. “I dare say at home she picks 


LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 87 

Her teeth and eats peas with her knife. All Yankees 
do.” A shudder went over the aristocratic lady’s 
shoulders. 

“Miss Barton does not do that,” returned her son 
with so moody a countenance that his mother naturally 
thought if he had not actually seen her eat peas with a 
knife he had, at any rate, seen something equally as 
ill bred. 

“If it was not that, what was it? In what did she 
differ from an English girl? I suppose she does differ?” 

“Decidedly.” 

“How? I must know before I advance one step to¬ 
ward seeing her.” 

“She is so deuced independent. She takes care of 
herself as though she were a bov—she was on deck, 
day and night.” 

“No chaperone? A young girl on deck at night alone?” 
Lady Apohaqui’^ voice and manner indicated incredu¬ 
lous horror. 

“I saw her one night promenading with one of the 
second-class passengers while her mother and sister were 
in the saloon.” 

“And you tell me she is a respectable character?” 
asked the lady in an awed whisper. 

“I haven’t the least doubt as to her respectability. 
That i-s only the American way. You must see her and 
judge for yourself. And if it is to be a go, you must 
help me mould her into good form. She is young 
enough to forget that America even exists.” 

“Charles,” said his mother, with the air of one mak¬ 
ing a great sacrifice, “I shall do anything in reason to 
pull you out of the hole you are in. If you really mean 
to marry the girl I shall see her and if she is plastic we 
may polish her and make her 'passable.’ When the matter 
is settled I’ll present her at Court, that will bring her 
at once into society. It’s quite a fad, these days, to take 
up Americans.” 

Then it was settled that Lady Apohaqui should call 
on the Bartons and invite them for a day or two to 


88 LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 


Falmouth. 'That will give us a chance to get ac¬ 
quainted,” said her son. 

“But think of the condition of Falmouth, almost in 
ruins.” 

“That is exactly what they will like to see—ruins. The 
west wing is habitable. A house like Falmouth, even 
though half in ruins, is a big thing to Americans; it is 
old and they have no old houses over there.” 

The next afternoon Lady Apohaqui and her son drove 
to the Metro-pole and sent their cards “to the American 
family, the Bartons.” Word was brought back that 
the ladies would be down in a moment. The moment 
was a long one. 

At last they heard the sound of silken skirts and Lord 
Apohaqui rose to greet—Miss Lobelia Packer, who 
bounced in with a gushing little giggle. 

“Why, Lord Apohaqui!” she cried, putting out her' 
hand, “how awfully good of you to come so soon to 
see us! Mamma will be down in a minute and delighted 
to see you, and so glad to know your mother. Lady 
Apohaqui, I’m so happy to meet you.” Seizing the 
lady’s hand she pressed it warmly between both of hers. 
“I hope you are quite well, my lady. Lord Apohaqui 
did not tell us he meant to bring you or we would have 
been ready to come right down without keeping you 
waiting. It’s a delightful surprise. Nobody but you 
English lords would do such nice things—so out of the 
common, I am sure.” 

Miss Packer smiled archly and shook her head at the 
Englishman in a way that made cold shivers creep up 
Lady Apohaqui’s spine. “Has Charles taken leave of 
his senses?” she silently but sternly asked herself. “That 
big, bouncing, chambermaid creature! Train her into 
good form? I would as soon train an elephant!” 

“It’s very good of you to say all this,” said Lord 
Apohaqui, supposing the young woman’s presence in 
the drawing-room merely accidental and not wishing 
to be rude. “I hope your mother is quite well?” 

“Oh, mamma’s all right. She is never sick. I was 


LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 89 

in the corridor when I met the % bell boy with your cards 
and so I ran right up and showed them. to> mamma, and 
she’ll be down in a minute. Mamma will be delighted 
to make your acquaintance, Lady Apohaqui. Mamma 
is very fond of aristocracy, in fact the main reason we 
came over to Europe is to see the aristocracy. You 
know we haven’t got any real titled people with us, 
except colonels, majors and judges; of course, they 
don’t count alongside of lords and dukes and princes. 
Ma and I are just wild to see the dear Prince of Wales, 
we’ve heard so much about him. I will run up and see 
why ma don’t come.” 

With this Miss Packer bounced herself off, and Lord 
Apohaqui rang the bell with great energy. 

“Good heavens, Charles!” cried his mother, rising to 
her feet, “are you demented? How could you dare 
bring me here to see that creature?” 

“I didn’t.” 

At this moment the bell boy entered and Lord Apo¬ 
haqui entrusted him with two cards and urged 'him to 
make no more mistakes. 

“The daughter is enough—and too much,” haughtily 
said the lady. “I do not care to see the mother. Let 
us go at once before they come.” 

“Sit down,” commanded her son in a vexed, imperative 
tone. “Don’t you see the boy made a mistake? He 
gave our cards to the wrong woman.” 

“She’s an American.” 

“Your maid is an Englishwoman.” 

“By that do you mean to say there is as much differ¬ 
ence between Miss Barton and that girl as there is be¬ 
tween me and my maid?” 

“I mean just that,” returned the young peer, and his 
mother resumed her seat just in time to see Miss Packer 
re-enter with her mother gorgeously arrayed in the 
stiffest of purple silks almost covered with passementerie 
of a golden hue. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting, marm, and you too, Lord 
Apohaqui,” said Mrs. Packer, after the presentation had 


90 LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTON'S 


been accomplished by her daughter. “I really couldn’t 
get into my clothes sooner. You see, I had just come 
from a bath and you know how it is yourself-” 

“Pray, madam/’ interrupted Lady Apohaqui with icy 
politeness, “pray do not trouble yourself tO' make an 
apology. We called to see Mrs. Barton and her daugh¬ 
ters.” 

“Yes,” added Lord Apohaqui, with the good-natured 
intention of being as polite as possible. “Until we saw 
Miss Packer we did not know that you were at the 
Metropole.” 

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Packer, “you want to see those peo¬ 
ple from Alabama? Well, I’m surprised to hear they’re 
here. I didn’t think they’d put up at such an expensive 
hotel. Anybody can see from the way they dress that 
they are not used to first-class places. Didn’t you think 
so-, Lord Apohaqui? You saw how common they 
dressed.” 

Before Lord Apohaqui replied Miss Barton came in, 
and Lady Apohaqui thawed at once; the simple dress, 
the quiet grace, the refined beauty of the young Alabama 
girl made an extremely pleasing impression. As soon 
as Mrs. Packer realized that a mistake had been made 
she shrewdly determined to put the best possible face on 
the matter. The mistake was gall and wormwood to 
her but the gall and the wormwood would be more 
bitter were the mistake known to the Bartons; so she 
smiled as she arose to her feet and shook hands with 
Lady Apohaqui. 

“We’re so charmed to meet you, marm,” Mrs. Packer 
began, “and it’s so good of Lord Apohaqui to bring 
you. Your son was a favorite with every one on the 
ship. Good afternoon, my lord. Lobelia and I have 
an engagement, so sorry to leave you. Come, Lobelia! 
Good afternoon, Miss Barton.” 

With this the two resplendent Chicagoans sailed out 
with smiling faces but hearts boiling with rage. 

Lady Apohaqui smiled graciously upon Grace Barton. 
“My dear,” she said, “I am indeed charmed to see you* 




“ I’m Jenny, mum, my lord told me to wait on your ladyship.” 






























































































































































































LADY APOHAQUI CALLS ON THE BARTONS 91 


the more so as your coming relieves me of a serious 
alarm that had come upon me.” 

“An alarm?” said Grace with puzzled look. 

“Yes, my son had told me ot a lovely American girl 
whom he met on the ship coming from America. We 
sent up our cards and then in came that elephantine 
young person who just left us. She imagined we called 
to see her and I thought she was the girl my son had 
described as lovely! Do you wonder I thought him 
suddenly stricken with lunacy?” 

Grace hardly knew what to say; she felt that a com¬ 
pliment was intended. She blushed prettily as she re¬ 
marked that “some people on the ship thought Miss 
Packer a very fine looking young lady.” 

“I detest what people call fine looking women,” re¬ 
plied the lady with an amiable smile; “they always look 
like housemaids.” 

Soon Mrs. Barton and Clara came in and it was not 
long before Lord Apohaqui perceived that they were 
also creating a favorable impression on his mother. 
Then the visit to Falmouth was proposed. 

“It is very kind of you to think of us,” said Mrs. 
Barton as placidly as though she were accustomed all 
her life to receive such invitations. “If the girls have 
no other engagement we will accept with pleasure. 
Grace, do you think we can go?” 

Grace said yes, and Clara added that of all things 
she wished to see an old English country place. And 
so the matter was settled. 


CHAPTER X. 

LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE. 

The British Museum is a center of attraction to tour¬ 
ists but it is no longer in the fashionable quarter of 
London. The squares and streets in the vicinity of this 
great pile are now given up to boarding houses. In 
one of these houses on Montague Place, just back of 
the Museum—the same little place where lived Mr. Pick¬ 
wick’s lawyer—comfortable and inexpensive quarters 
were secured by Rhett Calhoun and the author of the 
embryo “G. A. N.” As soon as they were settled, Mr. 
Gassaway started off to explore the “seamy” side of 
London life. “The writer of the genuine G. A. N.,” 
he said, “must get down among the people, where he 
can absorb their spirit and atmosphere!” Accordingly, 
he lost no time in setting forth for Houndsditeh and 
Whitechapel. Rhett found the people about him inter¬ 
esting enough and spent his first morning in London 
in the sitting room of Mrs. Ruggles’ house on Montague 
place. Mrs. Ruggles numbered among her guests a 
dark Mahomedan from Hindoostau, Signorina Della 
Plata, a concert singer, Mrs. Maraton, a little, worn, 
gray-haired old lady, Monsieur Farbleau, a French- 
teacher, and a florid man with chop whiskers, a noisy 
laugh, and a ditto suit of tweed clothing. 

Mrs. Maraton, the gray-haired little woman, forlorn 
and friendless, sat in Mrs. Ruggles’ parlor to avoid the 
solitude of her own apartment. The widow of an officer 
who had died in India, her rather meager pension 
doomed her to live in plebeian Montague Place; but in 
imagination, Mrs. Maraton dwelt among the nobility. 
She was never without “The Court Journal”; she never 
failed to discuss royalty when she found any one good 
enough to listen to her; and she was better posted than 

(92) 


LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 93 


the Queen herself as to the daily movements of the 
aristocracy, as to who was the guest of the Duke of 
this, who was with Lord that at Monte Carlo, or who 

was going with the Earl of - on his next yachting 

trip. Partly from compassion, partly from interest, Rhett 
walked over to the fireplace where the old lady sat, Court 
Journal in hand, and engaged her in conversation. 

“I dare say,” said the old lady in response to a remark 
from Rhett, “you Americans have no Court Journal?” 

“No,” returned Rhett, smiling, “we have not that 
good fortune.” 

“What a pity! English people could not get along 
without the Court Journal.” 

“Sut, madam, we have no Court.” 

“That is true, I had forgotten that; but you ought 
to have one. The influence is so refining! You will 
find all about the Queen and the Princes on the second 
page. We are devoted to the Royal family.” 

Turning to the second page of the Journal which 
Mrs. Maraton handed him, Rhett read as follows: 

“The Queen drove out yesterday accompanied by their 
Royal Highnesses Princess Beatrice and the Prince of 
Battenberg.” 

“The Prince and Princess of Wales, accompanied by 
the Princesses Maude and Victoria, proceeded yesterday 
to Kensington.” 

“The Prince and Princess Christian visited Windsor 
yesterday.” c 

“The Duke and Duchess of Fife leave London to-day 
for Duff House.” 

“H. R. H. Prince George of Greece left town yester¬ 
day on a visit to H. R. H. the Prince of Wales.” 

There were columns of similar notices. “Isn’t it de¬ 
lightful?” asked the nice old lady. 

“Immensely so,” returned Rhett with gravity; “I saw 
the same important items in yesterday’s ‘Times’.” 

“Yes, all the daily papers tell about our Royal family, 
but it’s so much nicer to read it in the Court Journal. 
Don’t you think so?” 



94 LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 


“Very much nicer/' agreed Rhett. “It is not so com¬ 
mon/’ 

“That’s it,” the old lady cried out, highly pleased. 
“The Court Journal is the most exclusive paper in the 
world. Americans do not always comprehend these 
things; I am so glad you see them; and Mr. Calhoun, 
if you will give me your address I will send, once in a 
while, a copy of the Court Journal to your home in 
America. It has such a refining influence.” 

When Mrs. Maraton arose with her Court Journal 
and tiptoed herself out of the room, the florid man with 
the tweed suit and the mutton chop whiskers came over 
to Rhett and congratulated him on being rid of the “old 
bore”. 

“I have found Mrs. Maraton very interesting,” said 
Rhett with dignity. 

“Your interest won’t last long,” retorted the florid 
man. “She’s always the same 1 —always harping on her 
Court Journal—it gets to be deuced tiresome.” Then 
sinking his voice to a whisper he added in a mysterious 
way, “There’s a reason for me being hot, that others 
haven’t got.” 

“What do you mean?” 

The florid man looked about the room to see that 
no one was within earshot before he whispered, “I 
came here on purpose to get away from Royalty; so 
naturally it makes me mad to hear that old woman al¬ 
ways talking about the aristocracy.” 

Rhett stared at the speaker, who seemed quite satis¬ 
fied with the surprise he excited. 

“A young fellow like you,” continued the florid man, 
“must know how deuced monotonous the upper circles 
get. I am Lord Bunger, of Wendham Castle, so I know 
what I’m talking about. The Nobility live half the time 
in a strait-jacket of form and ceremony.” 

“I see—I see,” said Rhett, a little doubtfully, but 
politely. “So you are in reality a lord?” 

“H—sh!” interrupted the florid man, glancing around 


LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 95 


to see if they were overheard. “Call me Mr. Bunger 
here. I’m going it incog, at Mrs. Ruggles.” 

“I was about to say, Mr. Bunger,” resumed Rhett, 
accepting the suggestion, “that I can easily see how any 
one would want to jump out of a strait-jacket. Were 
I an aristocrat living in a strait-jacket of ceremony, I 
should certainly get out as quickly as I could.” 

“To be sure, and that is why I confide in you. Being 
an American you understand my feelings. It’s awfully 
jolly, going it incog., I do just as I please and let the 
upper set go to the devil.” 

From English novels Rhett had received the idea 
that, as a rule, the English nobles are well-bred gentle¬ 
men; the only live lord he had ever seen was Lord 
Apohaqui and his appearance and manners certainly 
agreed with the American idea of the way a gentleman 
should appear and act. These preconceived opinions 
were rudely disturbed by the appearance and manners 
of Lord Bunger who, Rhett thought, looked more like 
a butler or a footman than the hereditary owner of a 
castle and a title. However, Rhett reflected that, al¬ 
though most lords are gentlemen, exceptions are possi¬ 
ble. Some of the titled characters in Trollope’s novels 
represent noblemen who have no conception of what 
the word gentleman means; a more despicable creature 
could hardly exist than the lord whom Trollope pictures 
in “Is He Pop enjoy?” 

“Lords don’t go it incog, in America?” said the Eng¬ 
lishman, looking at Rhett with a satisfied chuckle. 

“No. We have no lords in America.” 

“Oh, I forgot. America is a beastly republic where 
a butcher and a butler are as good as a lord. We could¬ 
n’t stand that in England. It would turn our blooming 
island upside down!” 

During the next two or three days, Rhett saw much 
of this florid gentleman, who seemed never to weary 
talking of his high rank and the grandeur of his ancestral 
castles. One evening, after giving a description of Wend- 
ham Castle for perhaps the tenth time, Lord Bunger 


96 LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 


declared he was becoming tired of London and had a 
mind to run down to one of his country estates. “How 
would you like to go with me, Mr. Calhoun? You’d 
see a bit of pretty country, and Wendham, though it 
isn’t in the best condition, is an historic old place—very 
different from your new houses in America.” 

Rhett had felt all along that Bunger was a fraud; but 
would a fraud extend an invitation the acceptance of 
which would inevitably expose his deception? “If he is 
a lord,” thought Rhett, “he is a queer one; if not a lord, 
what does he mean by inviting me down to his castle?” 

Finally, and just to satisfy his curiosity, Rhett ac¬ 
cepted Lord Hunger’s invitation, and it was arranged 
that Mr. Gassaway should be included in the party. The 
date for the trip was postponed until the following Sat¬ 
urday to give Rhett time to carry out a plan already 
made of visiting Windsor Castle. When Rhett men¬ 
tioned the plan as his reason for desiring to postpone 
the trip, to his dismay Lord Bunger volunteered to ac¬ 
company him. “I am heartily sick of Mrs. Ruggles,” 
he said, “a day’s outing at Windsor will be jolly good 
fun.” 

Rhett did not wish to knock about in public with 
this ill-bred fellow 1 —that would be quite different from 
a trip with the man to his own castle. But having ac¬ 
cepted BUnger’s invitation, how could he with good 
grace decline the proffer of his company to Windsor? 
The upshot was, they set forth together on the following 
morning. 

While walking along the platform of the Paddington 
Station looking for a vacant compartment, Rhett heard 
the sound of familiar voices and in a moment found 
himself face to face with the Bartons. “When we meet 
like this,” said Miss Clara, “London seems quite small.” 

“But it is not small,” said Rhett. “It is tremendously 
big! And yet it sometimes seems as if everybody 
wanted to go exactly to the same place you are bound 
for.” 

“No, not everybody,” said Clara. 


LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 97 


“Well, at any rate, it looks as if all London is down 
here at Paddington Station. The train is. jammed, I 
have not been able to find a single vacant section.” 

“How English you have become!” laughed Grace. 
“Americans don’t mind other people and do not insist 
on a whole section.” 

Rhett looked at Grace with a solemn face but with 
a twinkle in his eyes. “Do you see that man?” pointing 
to Bunger who was some distance down the platform 
bribing a guard to reserve a section. “I am traveling 
with him to Windsor; he is a Nabob who doesn’t like to 
be wedged in with the common herd. He insists on a 
whole section.” 

Mrs. Barton had just remarked that her party was 
also on the way to ^Windsor, when Bunger came up. 
“I have fixed the guard-” he began. 

“Excuse me,” interrupted Rhett, “these ladies are 
friends of mine. I shall go with them and shall meet 
you at Windsor.” 

“The guard has secured me a compartment,” said 
Lord Bunger, making an obeisance to the Bartons. “I 
am happy to offer you seats, ladies.” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Barton, coldly. “We will 
not intrude upon you. Rhett, do not bother about us, 
we can attend to ourselves.” 

At this moment the guard called to passengers to 
take their places. There was no time to find a vacant 
compartment and before the Bartons realized it, in the 
hurry and bustle Rhett had helped them into the section 
which Lord Bunger had reserved. Scarcely had Rhett 
and the nobleman taken their places when a commotion 
was heard on the platform. “You say that compart¬ 
ment is reserved?” exclaimed a determined feminine 
voice. 

“Yes, madam,” returned the guard. 

“Well, what of it?” demanded the determined feminine 
voice. “The other sections are filled. Do you mean 
to say that I’m not to go on this train? I’ve bought a 
ticket with as good gold as anybody’s got in England!” 



98 LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 


Uttering this breezy protest, the owner of the deter¬ 
mined voice (who was no other than Mrs. Packer of 
Chicago, and her daughter) climbed up into the com¬ 
partment; “Does his lordship permit?” said the guard, 
looking at Bunger. 

“There’s plenty of room, Mrs. Packer,” said Grace, 
moving closer to her sister. 

“It is all right, guard,” said Lord Bunger politely, 
and reached out to help the Packers in. “I perceive 
you are friends of my American friends, permit me to 
introduce myself, ladies.” With that he gave each of the 
Chicago ladies a card on which was printed: 

Lord Bunger of Wendham, 

Wendham Castle, Wendhamshire. 

The Chicago woman flushed with pleasure. “Dear 
me!” cried Mrs. Packer, “I’m glad to make your ac¬ 
quaintance. Lobelia, let me introduce you to Lord 
Bunger. I am Mrs. Ford Packer of Chicago, my lord, 
and this is my daughter.” 

“Daughter?” cried the lord with a gallant grin. “Bless 
me, madam, if I didn’t take you to be sisters. Step¬ 
daughter I suppose?” with a knowing wink first' at the 
mother, then at Miss Lobelia. 

“No, indeed!” cried Mrs. Packer, delighted at such 
a compliment from such a source, “I do assure you, 
Lobelia is my own and only child, though I had one 
other but he was drowned in the lake. That was two 
years ago, and it worried poor Packer so he took sick 
and died too.” 

“Well, well,” said Lord Bunger, “who’d have thought 
it? You don’t look a day over thirty!” 

“Thirty, you hear that, Lobelia? But I guess that’s 
the way with you lords! I’m a good deal past thirty!” 

“I should say she was,” whispered Rhett to Grace; 
they were sitting by the window at the other end of the 
compartment. 

The train was crossing the Thames, and the turrets 
and towers of Eton College stood out clearly in the 


LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 99 


cloudless noonday sky. “When the train reached Wind¬ 
sor the party drove up tO' the Castle in two divisions, 
Mrs. Packer, Miss Lobelia and Lord Bunger in one 
carriage, Rhett and the three Barton ladies in another. 
“Do you know those people?” asked Mrs. Packer as 
her carriage drove off. Lord Bunger said he had met 
Mr. Calhoun at his “hotel”; the Barton ladies he had 
never met before. “Umph,” said Mrs. Packer, signifi¬ 
cantly, “I shouldn’t imagine you would know much of 
such people. They are not the sort you associate with, 
I’m sure.” 

“They’re Americans, ain’t they?” asked Lord Bunger. 

“Yes, they are from America. I can’t deny that, but 
not from our part of America. They’re from the South, 
and you know, my lord, American Southerners are poor; 
they lost everything they had by their wicked rebellion. 
Why, that young man came over in the second-class, 
and them ladies, though they did have rooms in our part 
* of the ship, were in the second cabin most of the time, 
j They’re a common lot, anybody can see that—very 
common indeed.” 

“Dear me! You don’t say so?” said Lord Bunger. 
“I thought all you Americans were rich.” 

“Some Americans are,” said Mrs. Packer, proudly; 
“my husband made his pile; but every American hasn’t 
got the sense Packer had. I don’t believe you’ll find 
in the whole South a man worth five millions and that’s 
what Packer left when he died.” 

Five millions! The sum sounds large even to an 
English nobleman! Lord Bunger rolled the figures over 
in his mind and wondered if she meant pounds sterling 
or some foreign money not worth a penny, like the 
Portuguese reis. When he looked at Mrs. Packer’s 
dazzling diamond ornaments, and when he recalled the 
reputation Americans have for being fabulously rich, he 
concluded it was pounds the lady meant, and this con¬ 
clusion resulted in redoubled attentions to both mother 
and daughter. 

In the meantime, as the other carriage bowled along, 


100 LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 

Rhett amused the Bartons by descriptions of the board¬ 
ers at Mrs. Ruggles. 

“Mamma/’ cried Grace, “do let us take lodgings at 
Ruggles. I am sure that nice old lady with the Court 
Journal must be charming.” 

“And Lord Bunger?” laughed Rhett. “Don’t you 
count him charming?” 

“Yes—at a distance.” 

“He has invited me to run down with him Saturday 
to his castle.” 

“We have been invited to a castle, too,” said Grace. 
“Lord Apohaqui wants us to spend a couple of days 
at his place. We are going Monday.” 

“I thought Lord Apohaqui was a bachelor,” said Rhett 
in some consternation. 

Grace smiled. “So he is, but he has a mother and 
she goes down to receive us.” 

“Has Lady Apohaqui called on you?” persisted Rhett, 
still anxious lest the proprieties had not been fully com¬ 
plied with. 

“You don’t suppose we would go to Lord Apohaqui’s 
house on his invitation, do you?” asked Grace. “We 
don’t do such things in America, and certainly shall 
not here. As to Lord Bunger, do you believe his absurd 
story? I don’t. He hasn’t a castle any more than I 
have.” 

“I am rather doubtful about it myself, and that’s the 
main reason why I go with him. I want to see how 
he will get out of his castle in the air.” 

“What if your pretended lord inveigles you out of 
sight and holds you for ransom.” 

“What, play the brigand in England? No danger of 
that,” laughed Rhett. 

“Brigandage in England would be no more absurd 
than that a man like your Bunger should be a gentle¬ 
man with an ancient castle.” 

When they stopped in front of the castle gate they 
found the first section of their party already engaged in 
animated controversy with the guard. “He won’t let 


LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 101 


us in!” Mrs. Packer was exclaiming. “How is that, my 
lord? Can’t you arrange it? Lobelia and I have set 
our hearts on seeing Her Majesty’s palace. Do try to 
fix it.” 

Thus appealed to, Lord Bunger looked very pompous 
and asked the guard to summon his superior officer. 
This individual was in the gate lodge near by, but his 
coming did not mend matters. 

“Very sorry, m’lud,” said the sergeant, giving a mili¬ 
tary salute by touching the tips of his fingers to the 
little pill box of a cap that was tied to the side of his 
head just over the left ear, “very sorry, m’lud, but orders 
can’t be broke. Her Royal Majesty’s in the castle and 
we couldn’t pass the Prime Minister without special 
command.” 

“Very well, my good man,” replied Lord Bunger, 
loftily. “I understand and don’t blame you, though it’s 
provoking, very. These ladies have come all the way 
from America to see Her Majesty’s castle.” 

Mrs. Packer and Lobelia turned sadly away. “If I’d 
had time,” said Lord Bunger, “I’d have written the 
Queen, but my visit is quite impromptu and so there 
was no time to arrange matters.” 

“Would she have let us in if you’d written?’.’ asked 
Mrs. Packer, anxiously. 

“Of course she would. The queen is awful proud, 
but the friends of the nobility are her friends and when 
she hears how you stood at her front gate, and the guard 
not letting you in, she won’t mind telling you she is 
sorry that it all happened.” 

“Oh, Lord Bunger,” cried Mrs. Packer, tearfully, “I 
do hope you will write to the Queen and let us come 
some other day. Lobelia and me don’t want to go back 
to America without laying eyes on the Queen and see¬ 
ing how the house is furnished inside.” 

While the Bartons sat in their carriage awaiting the 
outcome of Lord Bunger’s negotiations, to their aston¬ 
ishment they saw a well-known figure approaching from 
the interior of the castle inclosure. 


I 


102 LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 

“As I live there’s Blower!” cried Rhett. 

Every American eye turned toward the genial show¬ 
man who came down the gravel walk at a swinging gait 
flourishing a slender cane in his hand, his face beaming, 
his whole demeanor as happy as though he himself were 
the lord and master of that magnificent castle. 

“Hello, Blower!” cried Rhett. “How does it happen 
you are lucky enough to enter the grounds of this en¬ 
chanted castle? We can’t budge an inch beyond the 
gate.” 

“Special commands from the Queen,” said Mr. Blower 
airily, as he bowed to the ladies. 

“Commands from the Queen?” repeated Lord Bunger, 
in surprise. 

“Yes, Her Majesty wants to see my Prodigies. The 
Georgia Magnet, the Arkansaw Girl, the Girl who Hides 
in her Own Hair—in fact, all my prodigies will have the 
honor of appearing next Saturday before the Queen and 
the Royal family.” 

Lord Bunger, imagining that Mr. Blower must be of 
considerable importance to receive a command from her 
Royal Majesty, drew a card from his pocket and pre¬ 
sented it to the showman. Blower in his turn was im¬ 
pressed with the title of his new acquaintance. “Ah, 
my lord, Pm happy to meet you, I shall be glad to have 
you patronize my prodigies, the most marvelous aggre¬ 
gation of wonders the world ever beheld. The ultra 
swells of both hemispheres patronize me. Do you know 
Lord Apohaqui?” 

“Lord Apohaqui?” stammered Lord Bunger. 

“Yes, Lord Apohaqui, a very elegant gentleman in¬ 
deed, I met him in America.” 

“Oh, in America?” said Lord Bunger, the ruddy hue 
coming back to his cheeks. “I see. What of him?” 

“Nothing particular, my lord. I merely mentioned 
his name because he happens to be one of my friends 
and patrons. You'll readily understand that Blower’s 
Prodigies are able to knock the persimmon when such 
men as Lord Apohaqui patronize them, and when Her 


LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 103 


Majesty herself commands them to perform at Windsor.” 

Mrs. Packer eyed Blower with a look of mingled envy 
and disgust, envy at his good fortune—disgust at his 
low station in life. 

“And have you really seen the Queen?” she asked 
scornfully. 

“Not yet, madam,” returned Blower, jovially. “I ex¬ 
pect to have that pleasure next Saturday. The Queen 
! herself doesn’t transact her amusement business—too 
many state affairs for that. Her secretary laid her com¬ 
mands upon me and my dealings are with the Grand 
Master of the household.” 

On the way back to London, Lord Bunger devoted 
himself entirely to the Packers. Mr. Blower went in 
the same compartment with Rhett and the Bartons and 
entertained them with an account of the wonderful 
success of his prodigies at the Alhambra theatre. 

After seeing the ladies to the Metropole, as the English 
Lord and the American democrat walked down High 
Holborn in the direction of Southampton Row and 
Montague Place, Lord Bunger seemed interested in Mr. 
Blower and asked a number of questions about his show. 
“I tell you what,” he said, “Pm thinking of having that 
fellow down at Wendham Castle. My people would like 
his show immensely. I’ve already invited your friends 
to come.” 

“Are they coming?” cried Rhett astonished, thinking 
of the Bartons. 

“Yes. They’re going down with us Friday.” 

“The Bartons?” 

“No, the others, that stunning lady with the diamonds 
and the jolly daughter. I’ll be blown if I haven’t half 
a mind to go in for her. She is perfectly stunning.” 

“Which one, the mother or the daughter?” 

“Both of them, but I mean the daughter. That’s the 
one for me. I wonder if they are really worth five 
millions?” 

“Can’t say. It’s likely, though.” 

“You know,” said Lord Bunger, meditatively, “we 


104 LORD BUNGER OF WENDHAM CASTLE 


noblemen have to look out for money when we marry. 
The aristocracy has to be kept up.” 

“And marriage is a good way to keep it up?” 

“Sometimes it is a very necessary way; did you know 
the Packers in America?” 

“No, I never heard of them until I met them on the 
steamer.” 

“You didn’t?” exclaimed Lord Bunger. “How then 
can they be worth five millions?” 

“That’s not surprising,” laughed Rhett. “America is 
a big country. I dare say it has hundreds of millionaires 
of whom I have never heard.” 

When they arrived at Mrs. Ruggles’ it was understood 
that Mr. Blower and his Prodigies should be invited to 
Wendham Castle. 


CHAPTER XI. 

LORD BUNGER’s CASTLE. 

In view of the fact that there had been no intimacy 
between the Bartons and the Packers, that on the con¬ 
trary their intercourse had been of the most formal and 
distant kind, the Bartons were surprised one day at 
luncheon to see Mrs. Packer and Miss Lobelia sail to¬ 
ward them down the central aisle of the Metropole’s 
big dining-room. 

“Can they be coming here?” whispered Clara as the 
Chicago women approached in their rustling silk gowns. 

The Packers paused when they reached the Bartons. 

“We thought we would come over to say good-bye,” 
said Mrs. Packer, affably. “We are going away to-day.” 

“Do you leave London?” asked Grace in a friendly 
way. 

'*‘For a short while,” answered Mrs. Packer, bridling 
up , with pride. “We are coming back in the season. 
I suppose you know, Mrs. Barton, that this is not the 
season for London?” 

“No, I did not know that,” said Mrs. Barton, coolly. 
“The season seems all right to me. I never saw lovelier 
weather.” 

“I ain’t speaking of the weather,” said Mrs. Packer, 
with a grand air. “I refer to the season of nobility and 
fashion. The aristocracy never visit London except in 
the season. All the aristocracy are out of town now, 
at their country houses. Lobelia and me are going to 
Wendham Castle.” 

“Indeed?” said Grace, politely. “That will be delight¬ 
ful. I suppose you will have a charming trip.” 

“Of course. I never saw anybody so anxious to have 
us as Lord Bunger. Even if it wasn’t the season for 
going to the country, I really think we should have 


(105) 


106 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


to go. Lord Bunger said he couldn’t let us decline the 
invitation. Lord Bunger is one of the most elegant 
gentlemen I ever saw, so intelligent, so— so —perfectly 
elegant. Don’t you think so, Miss Barton?” 

“I have had too short an opportunity to form a judg¬ 
ment,” was Grace’s guarded reply. 

“Short? Umph!” responded Mrs. Packer, with a toss 
of her head. “It doesn’t take a lifetime to see that a 
nobleman is superior to commonfolks. There is some¬ 
thing about a lord you can’t help noticing the very first 
time you lay eyes on him—a greatness, a highness of 
character, that is natural to aristocracy. Even that Lord 
Apohaqui has it, although nothing equal to Lord Bunger. 
Lord Apohaqui’s too vain, and too fond of low society. 
It’s a great pity he ain’t like Lord Bunger.” 

The announcement of their intended visit to Wend- 
ham Castle was the pleasantest performance Mrs. Packer 
had undertaken since leaving Chicago. “It’ll set ’em 
down a buttonhole lower,” she said to Lobelia after they 
had retired to their rooms. “They’ve been giving them¬ 
selves airs just because that half blind Lord Apohaqui 
paid ’em some attention, which of course he wouldn’t 
have done if he could have seen further than his nose. 
You mark my words, Lobelia, Lord Apohaqui will be 
on his knees to you when he finds other lords running 
after you. It’s the way with men. They’re just like 
sheep, they follow after one another. It’s a good idea 
to let them people know how thick we are with Lord 
Bunger.” 

Rhett, Gassaway and Lord Bunger were at the station 
when the Packers drove up. Their two enormous trunks 
were stored in the luggage van, and at 3:30 the party 
was speeding towards the south of England. The first 
ten miles of the journey after passing Croydon were 
through a charming region. At South Downs the train 
entered a mile-long tunnel; soon after, at Hayward’s 
Heath, they changed cars, and half an hour later passed 
Horsted Keynes and were let off at the flag station 
used by persons going to Wendham Castle. There was 


LORD BURGER’S CASTLE 


107 


no station master at this place, and on the present occa¬ 
sion there were no servants to meet Lord Bunger and 
his guests. 

“How provoking!” Bunger exclaimed. “How bloom¬ 
ing provoking—leaving us to cool our heels in the air! 
I’ll discharge the lot of them, the impudent beggars! 
I’ll teach ’em how to disobey my orders!” 

Mrs. Packer attempted to pour oil on the troubled 
waters of the lord’s temper. “I guess, my lord, they 
did not receive your telegram. They weren’t expecting 
you by this train, were they?” 

“No, that’s a fact. They were looking for us by the 
train that left London at noon, and may be my telegram 
didn’t reach ’em in time. Mr. Calhoun, you and Mr. 
Gassaway take care of the ladies while I walk over to 
the Castle and bring a carriage. It is not far. I’ll be 
back in half an hour.” 

Lord Bunger was not quite as good as his word. 
More than an hour passed and his guests grew weary 
enough before he drove up in a landau followed by a 
luggage wagon for Mrs. Packer’s big trunks and for 
Rhett’s and Gassaway’s modest valises. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Lord Bunger as 
they drove away, “sorry, ’pon my word, but it was just 
as you suspected, Mrs. Packer. The telegram mis¬ 
carried. They weren’t looking for me, and everything 
was out of order. I hope you’ll pardon all this, ladies, 
I really do. Wendham Castle isn’t what it used to be.” 

“Don’t mention it, my lord,” said Mrs. Packer. “We 
see enough newness in Chicago. The old things are what 
we want to see in this country.” 

“The older your castle, the better we’ll like it,” added 
Miss Lobelia. “We are perfectly wild about ruins and 
tumble-down places.” 

“Delighted to hear you say that,” said Lord Bunger, 
with a grin. 

“And I mean it, too, my lord, every word,” continued 
Miss Lobelia nodding her blonde head. “We’ve got 
plenty of castles on the lake front in Chicago, but they 


108 


LORD BUNGER’S CAISTLE 


are all new and in such apple-pie order that it’s quite 
distressing to look at them. I dote on castles with 
moats and turrets and walls tumbling down, covered 
with ivy. I paint them that way always.” 

“You do?” exclaimed Lord Bunger, eyeing her with 
admiration. “Well, you must paint Wendham Castle. 
I don’t spend much of my time there now, and it’s as 
near to being a ruin as any place you ever saw, con¬ 
sidering that people still live there.” 

“Lord,” said Mr. Gassaway, from his seat on the 
driver’s box, “do I understand that you live in a ruin 
from sentiment, not necessity? If so> I’ll make a note 
of that. In the Southern states of America many people 
dwell in tumble-down ruins, but not on account of senti¬ 
ment. Bless you, no! It’s because they haven’t any 
better houses to« live in and no* money to fix their old 
houses up. You were never south were you, Mrs. 
Packer?” 

“Never!” replied the Chicagoan in a severe tone; Mrs. 
Packer could not help secretly wondering why Lord 
Bunger invited such common fellows as Rhett and Gassa¬ 
way to visit Wendham Castle. 

“That’s too bad,” observed the reporter. “The South 
is a glorious land—a land of blue skies, brave men and 
beautiful women. I hope some day, lord, you will visit 
the sunny South.” 

They drove through a big gate with a keeper’s lodge 
on one side, and entered the park at the further end 
of which stood the castle. The walls were moss-grown, 
the place had a deserted aspect, the lawn was ill kept; 
still, there was an air of grandeur about the castle and 
park that was impressive. “To think,” mused Rhett, 
“to think that a coarse creature like that is the descend¬ 
ant of a long line of noble men and women! It’s enough 
to shatter one’s belief in the law of heredity.” 

The half dozen servants assembled on the steps in 
front of the castle as the carriage drove up made obse¬ 
quious bows, and one of their number stepped forward. 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


109 


opened the carriage door and assisted the travelers to 
alight. 

“James,” said Lord Bunger, “see that the ladies , 
luggage goes to the blue room, and tell Slayton to serve 
tea at once. I dare say we can all stand a bite, eh?” 
turning toi Mrs. Packer. 

“We are in no hurry, my lord.” 

“No, not in the least,” said Miss Lobelia. “This lovely 
old place makes me forget such worldly things as eat¬ 
ing.” 

“Very good in poetry, not worth a goober pea in 
practice,” cried Mr. Gassaway, running his fingers 
through his sandy hair. “Lunch after a railway trip is 
always the thing, lord.” 

“That’s my way of thinking,” assented Lord Bunger. 
“James, hurry up lunch. Tell Slayton not to dawdle.” 

“Yes, m’lud,” returned the dignified lackey addressed 
as James. The other servants took care of the visitors’ 
luggage. Mrs. Packer’s trunks were carried to the 
castle’s state apartments—two< large rooms, the furniture 
of which, once splendid, was now faded, tattered and 
moth eaten. Rhett’s and Gassaway’s valises were taken 
to two smaller rooms, also somewhat dilapidated as if 
uninhabited for some time. In comparison with Rhett’s 
quarters the blue rooms assigned to the Packers seemed 
cheerful as well as grand. The hangings, although faded, 
were fine; the oak and mahogany furniture two cen¬ 
turies old was imposing. 

“I don’t see why they keep such old fashioned things,” 
said Lobelia. “If I had to live here I’d split ’em up for 
kindling wood, wouldn’t you, ma?” 

“They do look dismal; so dark and gloomy like,” 
returned the mother. 

“And just see that carving, ma. It ain’t pretty To my 
notion.” 

“Pretty? It’s hideous. The English ain’t got no 
taste at all. They ought to come to Chicago and see 
American style!” 

“Did you notice that dreadful old chair in the hall? 


110 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


So stiff and high backed? And not a single rocking 
chair! How a body’s to get any comfort in this place 
is more than I can see.” 

“It would take a good pile of money to fix this old 
castle up,” said Mrs. Packer, glancing about the stately 
but dingy room. “An awful big pile, Lobelia, but money 
could do it.” 

“My money won’t,” said the young woman, tossing 
her head. 

“May be it will and may be it won’t. I don’t advise 
you to be in a hurry, Lobelia. But things might be 
worse than to be Lady Lobelia Bunger. Your pa left 
a pile of money, so there’s no< need of your marrying 
for that.” 

“La, ma! How you talk,” cried the daughter, again 
tossing her head. 

“The lord’s mashed on you, Lobelia, that’s plain as 
anything. It wouldn’t sound bad to be called Lady Lo¬ 
belia Bunger! It’s an aristocratic name and this is an 
aristocratic old castle—and won’t those common Barton 
people turn green with envy! They made such a dead 
set at that Lord Apohaqui. But he’s only flirting with 
’em. That Barton girl can’t compare with you. Lobelia.” 

The two Lake Shore ladies proceeded to array them¬ 
selves for dinner. Lobelia let down her long, blonde 
hair, seized a brush and set to work vigorously. A 
gentle tap on the door arrested her attention. 

“Who can it be?” asked the mother in a whisper. 

“Come in!” called out Miss Lobelia, when the tap 
was repeated. 

A comely, red-cheeked damsel with a white cap on 
her head entered. “I am Jenny, mum, my lord told 
me, mum, to wait on your ladyships.” 

“That’s very thoughtful of his lordship,” said Mrs. 
Packer, who for the first time realized that she should 
have brought her own maid. The fact was, that all her 
life, Mrs. Packer had been accustomed to wait on her¬ 
self, and did not care for the personal attention of a 
maid; she preferred to do her own hair, so did Miss 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


111 


Lobelia, and they had left their two maids at the hotel 
in London. “Maids are so* inquisitive,” Mrs. Packer 
was wont to- say. “They’re always spying out what 
you doC’ 

“We left our maids in London/’ said Mrs. Packer to 
Jenny. “They wasn’t well enough to come. You can 
do Lady Lobelia’s hair.” 

“Lady” Lobelia! The words slipped out of Mrs. 
Packer’s mouth almost unconsciously. “It’s the aris¬ 
tocratic atmosphere,” she explained to Lobelia after 
Jenny had gone. “It comes so natural to- say lord and 
lady in a castle like this. It’s quite catching.” 
t To the ears of the young Chicago woman the words 
“Lady Lobelia” were as soft and sweet as milk and 
honey. During the remainder of their stay, Mrs. Packer 
always addressed her daughter as “Lady” Lobelia; Lord 
Bunger called her by no other name, while Jenny gave 
her that title from the honest belief that it was hers by 
right. 

“You must wear your finest gowns, Lady Lobelia/’ 
said Mrs. Packer. “It’s the way to pay proper respect 
to Lord Bunger. I suppose, Jenny, his lordship is al¬ 
ways particular about dressing for dinner, eh? I’ve 
heard the English nobility always dine in full dress.” 

“Yes, mum, so they do,” replied Jenny, dropping a 
courtesy. “Shall I lay out Lady Lobelia’s gowns, 
mum?” 

Jenny went to the trunks, took out the silk and satin 
creations of Worth and laid them carefully on the bed. 
As she did this, numerous were her exclamations of 
wonder and delight. “Even his lordship’s mother hasn’t 
never wore no gowns like these,” she said. 

“His lordship’s mother?” It was the first time Mrs. 
Packer heard that Lord Bunger had a mother. She 
would like to have pumped the maid, but did not wish 
Jenny to> know how little she knew of his lordship and 
his family. “Is her ladyship here?” she asked. 

“Oh, no 1 , mum, she lives in London. It isn’t often 
we see her—not more than twice since his lordship’s 


112 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


father died. Which gown will your ladyship wear?” 

While Miss Lobelia was making her selection Mrs. 
Packer asked herself puzzling questions about Lord 
Bunger’s mother. 

Why had he not mentioned her? Why had she not 
come to the castle to receive her son’s guests? Was 
this bachelor reception—this playing host by a bachelor 
one of the nobility’s many peculiarities? “Yes, it must 
be,” mused Mrs. Packer. “The aristocracy is so awful 
eccentric.” With this she dismissed the subject and 
assisted Lobelia in selecting the most becoming gown 
from among the half dozen brought from London. 

Rhett Calhoun, having no> “full dress” on hand, quickly 
made his simple toilet and was downstairs before the 
Packers had decided in which of Worth’s “dreams” they 
would appear. The more Rhett saw of the lord of the 
castle the more he was astonished that such a man should 
be one of the hereditary peers of England. “I don’t 
understand it,” he mused, looking along the paneled 
walls at the portraits of the old dead and gone lords of 
the castle. 

Until his arrival at Wendham Rhett had had little 
faith in Lord Bunger’s pretentions. Here was a castle, 
however, and here were servitors addressing his host 
as “my lord” and so, perforce, Rhett was obliged to 
own that his suspicion was unfounded. 

Lord Bunger met Rhett coming out of the portrait 
gallery and the two went into the drawing-room together. 
Gassaway was already there, jotting down notes in his 
G. A. N. book. A few minutes later in swept Mrs. 
Packer and Miss Lobelia splendidly arrayed, two yards 
of silk and satin trailing behind them, diamonds gleam¬ 
ing on their necks and arms and ears and on their large 
white fingers. “Egad!” exclaimed Lord Bunger, nudg¬ 
ing Rhett, “ain’t she a stunner?” 

“You beat the Queen herself,” he whispered to Lo¬ 
belia. “There ain’t a queen in Europe as can come up 
to you. I mean what I say, Lady Lobelia.” The glisten 
of Lord Bunger’s admiring eyes attested his honesty. 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


113 


“La, my lord,” simpered Lobelia, intoxicated by the 
flattery, and blushing like a peony, “you do talk so!” 

“I talk the truth, Lady Lobelia, every word the truth,” 
he returned in a whisper. 

“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting, my lord,” said 
Mrs. Packer, smilingly. “It took some time to* unpack 
our things. Of course, we know too much of the nobili¬ 
ty’s ways to think of coming to dinner in our traveling 
dresses.” 

“It’s worth while to wait,” said Lord Bunger, eyeing 
Mrs. Packer’s diamonds admiringly; “well worth while 
waiting to see ladies got up so splendid, it really is!” 

“You are very flattering,” said the delighted Mrs. 
Packer. 

“Not a bit, not a bit,” returned the lord. “On my 
word, Mrs. Packer, the Queen herself couldn’t beat you, 
and that’s saying a good deal, for her Majesty has mil¬ 
lions in diamonds.” 

In a perfect flutter of delight the ladies were led into 
the dining-room, Lord Bunger with Lobelia on his arm, 
Rhett with Mrs. Packer; Gassaway followed alone. Mr. 
Blower and his Prodigies were to arrive by the midnight 
express from London. The dining-hall was large enough 
to seat a hundred people and the square table at which 
the party took their seats was proportioned to the size 
of the grand old hall; on state occasions the table was 
capable of being extended forty feet. While sipping 
her soup Mrs. Packer was mentally calculating how 
many American dollars it would require to fit and fur¬ 
nish such a big room and make it look home-like and 
habitable. The solemn James stood behind the chair 
of his master and stared at the ceiling when not busy 
serving the dishes which another servant, Hansard, 
brought in from the kitchen. Mrs. Packer, thinking 
it well to impress the servants with her intimacy with 
Lord Bunger and his lordship’s family, took occasion to 
remark just as Hansard came in with the second course: 

“I believe, my lord, your mother the Dowager resides 
in London?” 


114 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


It was a simple remark, yet it had a noticeable effect 
on Hansard as well as on the solemn James, but even 
more so on Lord Bunger. He squirmed in his seat as 
though a pin had risen up and pricked him. 

“My—my—mother?” stammered Bunger. “Do- you 
know her?” 

“Oh, no, though of course I know of her, as does 
every one who knows anything of England’s aristocracy. 
I am told she seldom resides here since the death of 
your lordship’s father.” 

Hansard and James exchanged glances and grinned. 

“Hansard, you may leave the room,” said Lord 
Bunger, severely. Hansard immediately went out; 
James followed with a tray of plates. “Old family serv¬ 
ants,” said Lord Bunger, visibly annoyed, “sometimes 
put on airs. They know we won’t turn ’em off after 
they’ve been in the family, father and son, so long. Yes, 
Mrs. Packer, the Dowager lives in London. She likes 
society and don’t like Wendham Castle—too- lonesome, 
you know, and—and—I’m sorry to say we had a few 
words and we’re not just in with each other.” 

“Oh, indeed, I beg pardon, I didn’t know,” cried the 
lady, contritely. 

“Don’t mention it, ma’am. Of course you didn’t 
know. I am happy to say I am at peace with all my 
other ancestors. I suppose you saw some of them in 
the hall as you came through?” 

“Yes, of course. You mean those queer men in iron 
breeches and jackets?” asked Mrs. Packer; “Me and 
Lobelia were looking at them and wondering what on 
earth made ’em wear iron clothes.” 

“Ma,” remonstrated her daughter, “I told you they 
wore ’em to keep off bullets and swords.” 

“So you did, Lobelia, but men don’t wear suclx things 
any more. When the war was going on I saw thousands 
of men starting down- South and not one of ’em wore 
iron things.” 

“Iron clothing,” remarked Rhett gravely, “has gone 
out of fashion.” 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


115 


. “And a good thing for us,” blurted out Gassaway, 
his mouth full of roast beef. 

“I’m sure,” said Lobelia, “it’s mighty lucky for us 
girls that the queer dresses the women used to wear 
have gone out of fashion. I didn’t see one in your hall, 
Lord Bunger, that wore gowns half so pretty as 
Worth’s.” 

“All of us dress better than our ancestors did,” said 
Gassaway, putting another piece of beef in his capacious 
mouth; “at any rate better than the ancestors of us 
common folk. I won’t speak for the nobility, but I am 
quite sure our ancestors wore skins or went naked.” 

“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mrs. Packer, proudly. 
“Your ancestors may be all you say, but everybody 
knows the Packers is a very old family, the first in the 
country. Before he died, Mr. Packer had a book telling 
all about the Packers. We’ve got it in our library in 
Chicago.” 

“I haven’t a doubt,” said Gassaway, perfectly oblivious 
to the lady’s displeasure, “not a doubt in the world but 
that our ancestors two' thousand years ago- were stalk¬ 
ing over England in skins or ploughing and grubbing 
the fields for their Roman masters. You see, Mrs. 
Packer, Julius Caesar conquered this country and made 
her people slaves. What do you say, Rhett?” 

“My ancestors,” said Rhett indifferently, “do not inter¬ 
est me half as much as my posterity. We can do noth¬ 
ing whatever for those who came before us; we may do 
something for those who come after us.” 

“My sentiments to a ‘T’,” said Gassaway jovially. 

Mrs. Packer looked proudly severe. “My lord,” she 
said coldly, “I hope you will not fancy no Americans 
have family pride. I do assure you, we of the North 
have a great deal, and Packer just before he was taken 
away was about to have his arms painted on his carriages. 
We always have them on our note paper.” 

Lord Bunger expressed pleasure at this, and said he 
had at once perceived that Mrs. Packer and “Lady” 
Lobelia belonged to the American aristocracy. Then the 


116 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


conversation turned to plans for the morrow. Lord 
Bunger proposed a drive to the Long Man of Wilming¬ 
ton, thence to Beachy Head. “We’ll take ’em both in,” 
he said. “The view at Beachy Head can’t be beat no- 
where—bluffs rise nearly a thousand feet out of the 
sea. Blower and his Prodigies ’ll be here to-night— 
we’ll pack lunch hampers and make a picnic of it; we’ll 
take the whole bloomin’ crowd from the castle.” 

After dinner they adjourned to the drawing-room; the 
men did not stay behind to smoke and drink, Lord 
Bunger being gallant enough to say he preferred the 
society of beauty to wine and tobacco. It was the 
purpose of the party to sit up for Mr. Blower and his 
Prodigies, and Rhett rather feared the wait would prove 
tedious, but with Lord Bunger’s gossip about the noble 
English families and Mrs. Packer’s account of the way 
she had smuggled her Worth gowns into New York, 
and how Lobelia had been the belle of the last Washing¬ 
ton season, the time managed to pass quickly. No one 
realized, that it was late until there were sounds of 
wheels on the drive without, then there was a noise and 
medley of voices and finally an announcement from the 
solemn James that Mr. Blower and party had arrived. 
The announcement had hardly been made when the 
jolly Mr. Blower himself appeared in full dress with am 
enormous chrysanthemum in the buttonhole of his coat. 

“Here you are, eh?” he cried joyfully. “Natural as 
life and twice as sweet! My! but ain’t this like old times 
on the ship! Mrs. Packer and her beautiful daughter, 
and the great author and the great lawyer that are to 
be! My! I’m glad to see you! How are you all?” 

“How are the Prodigies, Blower?” asked Gassaway. 
“Stand the trip all right?” 

“All well and hearty as trivets, Mr. Gassaway, but a 
little sleepy. They’ll be down in a minute. I came right 
in; you see I was already in full dress—I didn’t change 
after the performance, and my! what a performance it 
was! The audience went wild, positively wild, Lord 


LORD BUNGER’S CASTLE 


117 


Bunger. I tell you, sir, Blower’s Prodigies are shaking 
this old island up!” 

“Glad to hear it, Blower,” said Lord Bunger, affably. 
“We want you to shake us up before you go back to 
London, for it’s rather dull here for the ladies.” 

“Leave that to me, my lord. I’ll give you the special 
performance I gave the Queen, and you can invite the 
nobility and the county.” 

“Oh, no!” returned the host, hastily. “I don’t care 
to turn my castle into a public show place. I prefer a 
quiet performance in honor of my lady visitors.” 

“My lord,” said Blower, looking crestfallen, “I must 
own I had expected some reputation out of this trip.” 

“If it’s advertisement you want,” returned Lord 
Bunger, pleasantly, “I’ll make that all right. I’ll see 
that the papers have a full account of your visit to the 
castle.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

LORD BUNGER PROPOSES. 

Despite the lateness of the hour at which the residents 
and guests of Wendham Castle retired that night, Rhett 
Calhoun arose early the following morning to take a 
ramble through the park before breakfast. As he walked 
to the rear of the hall for his hat he saw and heard 
something that surprised him. The door at the end 
of the hall opened into a smoking-room with tables for 
card-players and a sideboard provided with decanters 
and glasses. The door of this room was ajar and within 
the room, seated at one of the tables sipping a brandy 
and soda, was Lord Bunger. It was not the tipple that 
astonished Rhett; he had observed in London his lord- 
ship’s fondness for strong drink. What surprised him 
was the presence in the smoking-room of Jenny, the 
red-cheeked maid, and the familiar relations that ap¬ 
peared to exist between her and her master. Both were 
so engrossed with each other that they did not hear 
Rhett’s approach. 

“You can just put this in your pipe and smoke it, 
Bunger—I ain’t agoing to- let you marry her after all 
that’s passed betwixt you and me. That’s flat!” 

Thus spoke the maid as Rhett Calhoun walked to- the 
rear of the hall. 

“Now, Jenny, darling,” returned Lord Bunger, coax- 
ingly, “what’s the use of running on like that? You 
know I mean to marry you and I don’t mean to marry 
her. She ain’t my sort. Do behave yourself like a 
good girl, now do!” 

“Behave myself? And you dancing and prancing 
around that yellow-haired girl! I know she paints it. 
I Seen the roots of her hair all dirty ash color. Behave 
myself? It ain’t in flesh and blood!” 


(118) 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


119 


Rhett coughed aloud and pushed the door wide open. 

“Hello. Is it you? Up rather early, eh?” said Lord 
Bunger, seeming quite put out by Rhett’s unexpected 
appearance. 

“Yes, I thought I would take a stroll about the park 
before breakfast.” 

“Capital idea. I’ll take a turn myself. Jenny, you 
can go.” 

At sight of Rhett Jenny had retreated to the further 
end of the room, where she stood looking sullen and 
angry. When ordered to leave she walked slowly away. 

“Take a drink,” said the lord, shoving a decanter and 
glass toward Rhett. 

“Thanks, only a little seltzer if you please.” 

Lord Bunger eyed Rhett intently as he touched the 
lever and sent the foaming seltzer into, his glass. Pres¬ 
ently he said: “You caught us, eh?” 

“I saw you and the girl, yes.” 

“And heard-?” 

“Something. The door stood open.” 

“Plang it all,” blurted out the lord, “a fellow can’t 
help getting into mischief when a pretty girl’s around, 
and Jenny isn’t half bad looking. Batching’s deuced 
lonesome, you know.” 

Rhett was silent. Had he given utterance to his 
thoughts he would have said things not agreeable to 
his host; but it was not his business to lecture this 
English lord on the iniquity of deceiving a poor servant 
girl. Something of this appeared in Rhett’s face. 

“Hang it all, Calhoun,” said the lord, “don’t pass for 
a bloomin’ parson. You don’t belong to the cloth.” 

“No, I am not a preacher,” said Rhett, coldly. 

“Well, then, you ought to know that a fellow with 
warm blood in him don’t see no harm in flirting with 
a lass like Jenny.” 

“The girl spoke of marriage, Lord Bunger. That 
goes beyond flirting.” 

“Oh, that was a joke, Jenny knows that was a joke. 



120 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


I don’t mean her no harm, Jenny knows I don’t. She’s 
just a trifle saucy, but for all that we’re good friends.” 

Rhptt did not think it worth while to express his 
thoughts, so he allowed the subject to drop. As they 
walked through the park Lord Bunger pointed out the 
various objects of interest. 

“There ain’t much now to look at,” he said apolo¬ 
getically. “The old place’s run down. His late lordship 
—I mean my father—was a terrible fellow for spending 
money. Everything he could lay hands on, trees, old 
pictures, horses, went for money,—and the money ran 
like water. I count myself lucky the old lord couldn’t 
cut up the land and sell that too. See those 
stables! There’s no more horses to put in ’em. We 
couldn’t scare up more than a dozen head on the place, 
cart horses and all; and we used to keep sixty.” 

“Sixty,” repeated Rhett. “What did your father want 
with sixty horses?” 

“My father?—oh, ah—yes, I understand; his late 
lordship loved to mount his friends. He was master 
of the hounds in this county,—great fox-hunter, you 
know. There wasn’t a season but saw twenty or thirty 
guests at the castle, and every one of ’em hunters. 
Them times have all gone, though. We couldn’t mount 
a dozen hunters now.” 

“I should fancy a dozen horses quite enough for one 
man’s establishment,” said Rhett. 

“One would be enough, and more’n enough, for me,” 
returned the lord. “I ain’t at all partial to riding my¬ 
self; still, when a fellow has his friends down from Lon¬ 
don he likes to give ’em a mount. But it can’t be done 
now, and I never think of it without saying to myself, 
What a shame his lordship didn’t do the square thing.’ 
I tell you, Calhoun, common people don’t know what 
troubles the aristocracy have.” 

“I suppose not.” 

“You can guess how things are going here when I 
tell you that even the servants talk of leaving. Rats 
don’t run out of a ship till she’s sinking, and servants 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


121 


don’t quit a place like this until they see matters turning 
blue,—a beautiful, bloomin’ blue. Egad! even the Jews 
in London are down on his lordship.” 

“His lordship?” 

“Oh—ah—yes, I mean me. They’ve refused to lend 
me another bob. 'You see now how I’m fixed and you 
needn’t wonder I’ve made up my mind to marry money.” 

“No, I do not wonder,” answered Rhett, thinking of 
Mrs. Packer and her millions. 

They stopped a moment at the gate and Rhett tried 
to make out the Latin inscription. “I used to be fairly 
good in Latin,” said Rhett, “but those letters are half- 
effaced; I can’t make them out.” 

“His lordship can read it easy, sir,” said the gate 
keeper, coming out of his lodge and bowing and 
grinning. Rhett fancied his look and manner were de¬ 
risive. 

“Hold your tongue,” said Lord Bunger, angrily. “You 
forget yourself.” 

“Oh, no, my lord,” with an obsequious bow, “I re¬ 
members who I be and who you be.” 

“Then go about your business.” 

Although both spoke in low tones, Rhett heard the 
remarks passed between the lord and the gatekeeper. 
“His servants do not like him,” was the conclusion the 
young American drew. 

“Can you read the inscription, Lord Bunger?” asked 
Rhett. “I can’t make it out.” 

“No,” replied the lord, “the letters are too old to make 
out, but I remember about the inscription. There’s a 
sword up in the middle and a lion and a unicorn fighting 
for the crown, which means for Charles I. It was King 
Charles who elevated us to the peerage.” 

“Us?” said Rhett, smiling. 

“I mean my ancestors. The Bunger family, sir, is 
the very first in this country,—the very first, although 
it has run down; but if Lady Lobelia and me can hit 
it off,—ah! then you’ll see this place as it was in old 


122 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


times. American money and English nobility make a 
fine combination, now don’t they, Mr. Calhoun ?” 

When Rhett and Lord Bunger returned to the castle, 
they found all the guests, except Mr. Gassaway, assem¬ 
bled in the drawing-room ready for breakfast. The jovial 
reporter did not make his appearance until summoned 
by a special messenger. “Don’t think I was napping,” 
he said, grinning and bowing and looking as awkward 
as a chubby fat bear, “it wasn’t that at all, lord. I was 
pickling pointers for the G. A. N.” 

“Gassaway aims high,” said Rhett; “he is writing a 
great novel.” 

“Umph!” said Mrs. Packer. '‘What’s a novel but a 
lot of trash? I never heard of a man getting rich writ¬ 
ing stories.” 

This remark aroused Mr. Gassaway to an eloquent 
pitch. “Mrs. Packer,” he said, “letters rank above all 
other arts. An author of genius is greater than any 
monarch! To write a great book is the highest ambi¬ 
tion the human heart can hold. That ambition, Mrs. 
Packer, is in my heart. I am writing a novel that will 
picture life, high and low,—a reflex, a focusing of the 
humanity of the present day!” 

“A noble ambition,” said Mr. Blower, jovially, “a 
grand ambition, Mr. Gassaway, and I want to see it 
succeed. After breakfast you must give us a specimen 
of your work?” 

“You mean of the G. A. N.?” asked Gassaway, beam¬ 
ing with delight. 

Lord Bunger who was anxious for a tete-a-tete ramble 
with Miss Lobelia through the park, did not receive Mr. 
Blower’s proposition with enthusiasm. The Packer 
ladies also frowned on it, but Mr. Gassaway was not 
a gentleman who needed urging. Immediately after 
breakfast he rushed to his room and returned with a 
bulky MS. from which he proceeded to read copious 
extracts. 

I wish I could give here the chapters from the G. A. N. 
which the talented author read aloud to Lord Bunger 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


123 


and his guests. For these chapters, though few in com¬ 
parison with the whole of the great work, illustrated 
most graphically Mr. Gassaway’s genius. But tO' re¬ 
produce them in these pages would be a violation of the 
copyright-laws as well as a breach of confidence. Suffice 
it to say that the extracts presented by Mr. Gassaway in 
the drawing-room of Wendham Castle, that Sunday 
morning, were intensely realistic, intensely exciting, in¬ 
tensely saturated with Gassawayism. Pathos, comedy, 
tragedy,—in short, all the qualities which the most ex¬ 
acting critic could demand were there. The reporter- 
author was interrupted several times by warm plaudits, 
clapping of hands, stamping of feet, cries from Lord 
Bunger of “Hear! Hear!” and from Mr. Blower of 
“Bravo! Bravo!” The generous applause from the host, 
considering how deeply occupied he was with the charm¬ 
ing young woman by his side, was more than Rhett 
expected. 

“That will please Labor,” said the noble lord, slyly 
giving Miss Lobelia’s hand a squeeze. “That’s good; 
I see you’re a friend of the laboring people.” 

“Friend?” returned Gassaway, with great enthusiasm, 
“I am their champion. I am ever on the side of the 
weak as against the mighty, and it does me good, lord, 
to see you harbor the same feelings. You find nothing 
of Howells or James in my style, eh, Rhett?” 

“No, my dear Gassaway, it is safe to say neither 
Howells nor James ever wrote anything like that.” 

“What do you think of it, Mrs. Packer? I am not 
one who despises woman’s opinion. I shall count the 
suffrage of the fair sex as my greatest glory.” 

“I don’t believe*in woman’s suffrage,” returned Mrs. 
Packer, stiffly. “Pm not one of your strong-minded 
women. I don’t think any lady is.” 

“But, madam, what think you of the sentiments ex¬ 
pressed in my G. A. N.? How do they strike you?” 

“Not at all favorably,” returned Mrs. Packer, with 
increased severity. “Chicago hasn’t any use for Anar¬ 
chists.” 


124 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


“Anarchists, Mrs. Packer?” 

“Yes. It is just such stuff as you’ve been reading 
that puts cranky notions into workingmen’s heads and 
sets ’em against Capital. They gave Mr. Packer an 
awful lot of trouble when he was alive.” 

For a moment Mr. Gassaway looked nonplussed; then 
his face recovered its jollity. “Mrs. Packer, you aren’t 
up to the spirit of the times. But don’t be discouraged; 
you will grow. You’ll catch up with the procession. 
The tide of progress will sweep you on. Did you notice, 
lord, how paragraphic my style is?” 

“How what?” asked the noble lord. 

“How paragraphic. Many novelists overlook the fact 
that the average reader turns over the pages to see if 
there are open spaces, short sentences. - If the book is 
solid the reader fears it is dull. Observe how paragraphic 
is my style.” 

Opening the MS. at random, Mr. Gassaway read: 

“Is the Senator at home?” 

“He am,” returned Flunkey. 

“Where is he?” 

“In de study.” 

“I must see him.” 

“Hit am impossibul.” 

“Why?” 

“De Senator am wid Gineral Highead.” 

A frown contracted the Congressman’s brow. 

“Flunkey, listen.” 

“Yes, sah.” 

“I must see the Senator. Do you hear? Must!” 

Flunkey quailed before the Congressman’s gaze. 

“Sah, come dis way to de Senator’s study.” 

“Now that,” commented Gassaway, “is open work— 
only a few words to the line. Novel readers will buy 
and read a book like that.” 

“You must be a student of Gibbon,” remarked Lord 
Bunger. “You know Gibbon, the great historian; he 
is famous for that sort of thing.” 

“I assure you the idea is perfectly original,” cried 


LORD HUNGER PROPOSES 


125 


Gassaway, radiantly. “I have never read Gibbon’s nor 
anybody else’s history.” 

“Well,” said Lord Bunger, “Gibbon’s tiptop; you 
ought to read it before you visit his tomb. He’s buried 
near Wendham.” 

In view of the fact that it was proposed to visit Gib¬ 
bon’s tomb that same day on the way to Beachy Head, 
Rhett thought there was scarcely time for Mr. Gassaway 
to read the great history. Mr. Blower, however, un¬ 
familiar with the number and size of Gibbon’s ponder¬ 
ous tomes, told Lord Bunger if the work was in the 
castle library he would like to look it over before they 
started. Lord Bunger was about to reply to Mr. Blow¬ 
er’s request when his attention was attracted by the sud¬ 
den appearance of Jenny, the waiting maid. Jenny’s 
usually red cheeks were somewhat paled, her hair and 
manner indicated suppressed excitement. Glancing 
around the room her eyes rested on Lord Bunger in the 
alcove in close and agreeable proximity to Miss Lobelia 
Packer. A frown contracted Jenny’s brow. She took 
a step forward. 

“My lord!” she called, growing still paler. 

“What do you want?” he asked harshly. 

“You are wanted outside,” replied the girl, somewhat 
abashed but still resolute. 

“Can’t you see I am engaged?” said her noble master, 
irritably. 

“It can’t wait—my lord,” replied Jenny, with renewed 
resolution. 

Though visibly angry and annoyed, the lord arose and 
went out into the hall. 

“Did you see that, Lobelia?” whispered Mrs. Packer 
to her daughter. “I wonder how his lordship puts up 
with such impudence.” 

“I wouldn’t stand it a minute,” returned Miss Lobelia, 
pettishly. His lordship had been called away at a very 
interesting point in their conversation. 

“Of course you wouldn’t,” retorted Mrs. Packer. “I 
hope you won’t never be such a fool as to let a thing 


126 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


like her run over you. Has Lord Bunger said anything 
to you, Lobelia?” 

“Said anything? Of course; he’s saying things all the 
time. Did you suppose he was dumb?” 

“You know what I mean,” the mother returned, re¬ 
proachfully. “It’s a bad girl that keeps things away 
from her mother.” 

“I ain’t keeping anything, ma.” 

“Then tell me what he says. He looks as if he was 
courtin’ you every minute.” 

“Maybe he is, ma. He says I am the girl he wants 
to marry.” 

“What’s that but courtin’? Now, Lobelia, you listen 
to me; don’t you get engaged too tight. He’s a lord 
and he’s got this old castle, but it’ll take big money to 
fix it up, and my opinion is he’s awful short of cash, 
and hard cash, as your pa used to say, is what makes 
the mare go.” 

“Suppose he pushes me, ma, and will have yes or no?” 

“Why, then, Lobelia, you play shy. When a girl’s 
pushed she can pretend like she can’t leave her mother 
so sudden. Men are the easiest things fooled if you 
only do it right. What with your pile of money and 
your face and Agger, Lobelia, you ought to catch a 
dock.” 

When Lord Bunger returned, his cheeks looked more 
florid than ever, and to Rhett it seemed as if he must 
have been engaged in unpleasant altercation. He apolo¬ 
gized for his absence, and announced that the vehicles 
were ready for their trip to Beachy Head and to the 
Long Man of Wilmington. The lord and Miss Lobelia 
drove together in a four-seated trap; the extra seat was 
heaped up with lunch hampers. The other members 
of the party rode in a carryall, a vehicle so commodious 
that it easily accommodated the driver and seven pas¬ 
sengers, some of whom were by no means feather 
weights, k Mrs. Packer, the Arkansaw Strong Girl and 
Mr. Blower each weighed in the neighborhood of two 
hundred pounds. 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


127 


When it was discovered that Gibbon’s tomb was a 
few miles to the left of the road to Beachy Head, Mrs. 
Packer objected to making the detour. “We aren’t out 
looking for graveyards,” she said, “and if we were, what’s 
Gibbon’s grave anyway? I wouldn’t give a fig to see 
it. I never heard of his doing anything but writing that 
old history. Who reads it, I’d like to know?” 

“Some few read him, madam,” said Rhett, solemnly, 
“and as we may never again be so near his burial place 
we ought to see it.” 

“Graveyards always make me feel creepy,” insisted 
Mrs. Packer. “But as Lord Bunger and Lobelia have 
drove straight on, we’d better follow ’em.” 

At Beachy Head James got out the luncheon while 
the lord and his guests strolled along the edge of the 
steep precipice and looked down at the foaming breakers 
dashing against the rock seven hundred feet below. By 
straining their eyes they could dimly discern the coast 
of France across the Channel. Lunch was spread al¬ 
most at the very edge of the chalk cliff, and as each 
bottle was emptied Lord Bunger tossed it over into the 
sea. When well warmed by frequent libations he began 
to toss over some bottles that had not been opened. 

“Paying tribute to old Neptune, eh?” said Gassaway, 
grinning. 

“Oh, my lord, don’t be so wasteful,” cried Mrs. Packer. 
“What’s the use of throwing good wine into briny 
water?” 

“It’s quite poetical, ma; a tribute to Neptune, as Mr. 
Gassaway says.” Miss Lobelia had not graduated at 
the Union Institute without learning something of Greek 
mythology. 

“Poetical?” murmured the noble host, a little boozy 
and quite red in the face. “A fellow can’t help being 
poetical in the presence of—of beauty like I see before 
me.” 

Lobelia, who was also a little heated by wine, blushed 
rosy red at the lord’s compliment and the glance that 


128 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


accompanied it. The mother, always practical, main¬ 
tained her opinion. 

“Poetry/’ she insisted, “is well enough in its way, but 
common sense is better. That’s what your pa used to 
say, Lobelia. If Packer hadn’t had a lot of horse sense 
he wouldn’t have left us no five millions. I dare say, 
Lord Bunger, that wine you threw away cost three or 
four shillings a bottle?” 

“Three or four shillings!” repeated his lordship, grin¬ 
ning. “More like half a guinea a bottle. How much 
did you pay for that Malmsey, James?” 

“Ten and six a bottle, my lord.” 

“Ah, I thought so, exactly half a guinea a bottle. 
But who cares? What’s the odds? A shilling more or 
less ain’t nothing to—to—a lord, you know.” 

When lunch was over, they started east, for the Long 
Man of Wilmington, that remarkable figure two hundred 
and fifty feet high, known to have existed before the 
Christian era. It was mentioned by Julius Caesar. Then 
they drove on to Pevesney Castle, where an hour was 
spent rambling around the massive Roman walls and 
through the courts of the old Norman castle. This 
castle had been built in the twelfth century, but it seemed 
quite modern in comparison with the Roman wall erected 
two thousand years ago. The drive, the view of the 
ocean at Beachy Head, the rambles through Pevensey 
Castle were so delightful that Lord Bunger was given 
a vote of thanks which he received with grins and loud 
good humor. When once more alone in the trap with 
Lobelia, driving back to Wendham Castle, he told the 
young Chicago woman it was her approval he most 
cared for; the others might be pleased or displeased, 
but if she were pleased he, Lord Bunger, was the happi¬ 
est man in England. 

“La, my lord,” murmured Lobelia,, blushing, “how 
you do talk!” 

“I can’t help it, Lady Lobelia, upon my word I can’t. 
My feelings get the better of me, on my soul they do! 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


129 


You couldn’t help talking either if you had lost your 
heart as I have.” 

“Lost your heart?” 

“Yes, lost my heart. It’s gone, Lady Lobelia, and 
who do you suppose has got it?” 

“La, my lord, how should I know?” 

“Nobody but you ought to know, for you have got 
it, Lady Lobelia,—you have got every little piece and 
splinter of it. What are you going to do with it? Won’t 
you keep it, and give me yours in return?” 

“La, Lord Bunger!” cried the young woman, bearing 
in mind her mother’s practical instructions, “this is so 
sudden. You take my breath away.” 

“But it is your heart, Lady Lobelia, your heart I 
want to take away. I shall die a miserable, broken¬ 
hearted man if you won’t let me have it.” 

Lord Bunger transferred the reins to- his right hand 
and proceeded to put his left arm around Lobelia’s waist. 

“Lady Lobelia!” he cried, giving her a good squeeze, 
“you’re an angel—a lovely blonde angel! The happiest 
day of my life will be the day you become Lady Bunger.” 

With this he leaned over and gave the girl a kiss 
smack upon her ripe red lips. Lobelia threw herself 
back and playfully slapped at the audacious lord’s face, 
but the slap was as gentle as a zephyr’s blow. 

“Lord Bunger, I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet!” 

“But you have looked it,” the lord retorted, proceed¬ 
ing to again encircle the fair Lobelia’s waist. As he 
went no farther Lobelia remained quiet, reflecting that 
she had complied with her mother’s advice neither to 
accept nor reject but to' keep her suitor dangling while 
she awaited future developments. If a duke appeared 
she would feel herself free to take him; if no duke came, 
why then it might be well to let part of her fortune go 
toward repairing Wendham Castle and endowing her 
with the lovely title of “Lady Lobelia Bunger.” What 
a furore she could make with her wealth and title when 
she revisited Chicago! From what a proud height would 
she look down on certain fashionable dames who had 


130 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


held themselves above her and her millions! And how 
envious and crestfallen would be those Barton women! 

These pleasing reflections wreathed Lady Lobelia’s 
face in smiles; indeed, so perfectly charmed was she with 
the prospect, she would not have resented it had Lord 
Bunger repeated the squeeze and the kiss. She was too 
happy to be displeased at anything. That evening in 
the privacy of her chamber she told her mother what 
the lord had said and done. Mrs. Packer commended 
her prudent course. 

‘‘Keep things just as they are,” she said. “If he wants 
to think himself engaged to you let him do it, but, 
Lobelia, don’t tie yourself too tight. Give yourself a 
good loose rope, so if a dook does come along you can 
just tell Lord Bunger you never promised anything.” 
Then they went* down to dinner. 

When dinner was over and when the ladies had with¬ 
drawn from the dining-room, leaving the nobleman and 
his male guests at table with their wine and cigars, one 
of the servants came in and told Lord Bunger he was 
wanted outside by a messenger. 

Said the lord haughtily, “I can’t leave my guests for 
messengers.” 

“It’s most uncommon important,” said James; then 
he leaned over and added something in a whisper which 
discomposed his lordship in a remarkable degree. 

“Oh—ah,” he stammered, the ruddy glow leaving his 
face so that he looked absolutely pale. Then slowly 
rising to his feet he muttered an apology to his guests 
and followed the sedate James out of the room. 

“Something’s up,” remarked Gassaway, cheerfully. 
“A dun, I reckon. His lordship looked terribly pestered. 
What a go ’twould be if the messenger was a bailiff with 
a writ to serve!” 

“That would be decidedly unpleasant for the lord of 
the castle,” said Rhett, at the same time thinking that 
possibly Jenny, the housemaid, might have something 
to do with the perturbation Lord Bunger manifested. 

“Ancient castle sold for debt; ancestors in armor auc- 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


131 


tioned off,—bought in by rich American visitor from 
Chicago,—what a striking commentary on English high 
life! Don’t you think so, Rhett?” queried Gassaway. 

Meanwhile Lord Bunger was in close confab with the 
sedate James in the privacy of the billiard-room to which 
they had retreated. “Don’t it say when he’ll come?” 
asked Bunger, anxiously. 

“Not a word, just a telegram saying to put the rooms 
in order for guests.” 

“Curse it all,” muttered Bunger, grinding his teeth. 
“If he’d only give us another week we’d be safe,—our 
fortunes would be made. The very devil’s to pay now.” 

“Rush the thing,” said James. “Get the knot tied fast 
before he comes; then you’ll be all right.” 

For a moment Lord Bunger seemed lost in deep 
reflection. 

“That’s your only chance,” continued James, eagerly. 
“She’s powerful stuck on you. Get the knot tied and 
you’ll be all right no matter what comes.” 

“James, you’re a trump. I’ll try it. I’ll rush it! If 
we make it a go you’ll be set up for life,—you and the 
rest as has stood by me. I dessay we’ve got a few days 
to go on. He ain’t one of the rushing sort. Scotland’s 
the place for us, but I say, James,” sinking his voice 
to a whisper, “keep Jenny quiet or she’ll fling all the fat 
in the fire.” 

When Lord Bunger returned to the dining-room his 
face had recovered its ruddy hue and his air was again 
almost cheerful. 

“Shut off his creditor,” thought Gassaway. 

“Pacified the housemaid,” thought Rhett. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said Lord Bunger, cheerfully, “if 
you’ve drunk enough we’ll join the ladies. What do 
you say?” 

“But you haven’t had your cigar,” said Blower, “we’ll 
wait for your lordship.” 

“I’m deuced fond of the weed,” replied their host, 
“but I’m deuced fonder of the ladies.” 

“Ladies?” said Blower, with a wink. “We ain’t blind, 


132 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


my lord. Anybody with half an eye can see it is one 
lady that has captivated you, and a devilish fine one she 
is, too. Her father was a great man, self-made, left a 
big pile. She’s his only child. The man who gets her 
will be a lucky fellow, I don’t care who he is.” 

On returning to the drawing-room Mr. Blower col¬ 
lected around him all but one of Lord Bunger’s guests 
to listen to-stories of the dangers by field and flood that 
beset an American showman. The one exception was 
Miss Lobelia Packer, and the reason she did not join 
the others in listening to Mr. Blower’s thrilling tales 
was because her host invited her to examine some pho¬ 
tographs that lay upon a table at the end of the room. 
They had not been there five minutes before the lord 
proposed a stroll in the park. 

“Oh, my lord,” Lobelia objected, coyly holding back, 
“it is so dark out there.” 

“Dark, Lady Lobelia? The stars are shining.” 

“But it’s damp, Lord Bunger.” 

“It’s dry as a bone,” protested the lord. “I do believe 
you’re afraid of me, Lady Lobelia.” 

Even while protesting the girl suffered herself to be 
drawn out of doors. Tucking her stout, strong arm 
within his, the two walked on a minute in perfect silence. 
It was Lobelia who broke the silence by exclaiming, 
“La, my lord, how pretty it is out here!” 

“Not half as pretty as you, Lady Lobelia. Nothing 
in all the world is half as pretty as you.” 

“Goodness, gracious, my lord! How you do flatter,” 
simpered Lobelia. 

“It ain’t flattery, you know it ain’t,” protested the 
lover, putting his arm around her waist and pressing 
her close to his side. “Lady Lobelia, I love you to 
distraction, you know I do. Name an early day or you’ll 
see me pine and die at your feet. You ain’t that hard 
hearted, are you? Say you’ll be mine and I’ll be the 
happiest man in the whole world, positively the very 
happiest!” 

Lord Bunger gave another squeeze to the waist of 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


133 


the too, too solid angel; her head drooped on his 
shoulder, an act which the wooer construed as consent 
and forthwith proceeded to manifest his delight after the 
fashion peculiar to lovers. Lobelia looked very hand¬ 
some in the moonlight, and as the florid lord gazed 
at her golden hair, her fair face and full form, he felt 
for the moment that he wanted her as much as he wanted 
her money. But Lobelia did not forget her mother’s 
good advice. Withdrawing from her noble lover’s em¬ 
brace she exclaimed, “La, mv lord, how you do muss my 
hair!” Lord Bunger protested that it was her own fault 
—she was so lovely it was impossible to resist the temp¬ 
ting tribute to her beauty. He declared that he loved 
her to that degree he could not bear a minute’s 
separation; he wanted her to be his at once,—moreover, 
there would be danger in delay, even a week’s delay 
might make their marriage impossible. 

“What’s to prevent it?” asked the maiden, who by 
no means liked the idea of a secret marriage; half the 
glory in marrying a lord would be in the newspaper 
accounts of the ceremony, in their description of the 
bride’s dresses and of the distinguished people attend¬ 
ing the wedding. 

“My darling Lobelia,” said the lord, “you don’t under¬ 
stand English laws. I’ve got a mother.” 

“What can she do. You’re of age, ain’t you?” asked 
the practical girl. 

“That’s nothing in this country. Mothers have strict 
rule over their sons until they’re thirty. She’s got an 
eye on a rich old maid she wants me to marry. I’ve 
got nothing but my title. If my mother wants she can 
leave everything, even this old park and castle, to some 
orphan asylum, and she’ll do it, sure pop, if I marry 
without her consent. My plan is to run up to Scotland 
and get the knot tied before the old lady knows one 
word about you. After the thing’s done she’ll forgive 
and make up. I am her only son, see?” 

Lobelia saw, but not in the way her lover desired her 
to see! She liked her noble wooer, but not enough to 


134 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


forego the glory of a public wedding. On the other 
hand she was loath to give him entirely up, and it seemed 
she would be obliged to do this unless she married him 
off hand in Scotland. 

“You are awful impetuous, Lord Bunger, ,, she finally 
said, “I don’t want to make trouble between you and 
your mother and you mustn’t make trouble between me 
and my mother.” 

“Lady Lobelia,” insisted the lord, “I don’t want to 
make trouble between you and your mother. When we 
lay the case before her she will certainly consent, if 
she is at all the lady I take her to be. She ain’t hard¬ 
hearted, she ain’t a murderess, she won’t say no when 
she knows it will kill me to lose you! Now, my darling, 
one more kiss before we go into the house and see your 
mother!” 

The reader who sympathizes with a pining lover will 
no doubt regret to learn that when the case was -sub¬ 
mitted to Mrs. Packer, she did not prove as tender¬ 
hearted as Lord Hunger expected. In fact, the prospect 
of her daughter’s lover pining and dying produced no 
effect at all upon the practical Chicagoan. 

“A Scotland marriage!” she cried indignantly. “No, 
indeed! I’ve heard tell of them kind of marriages. I 
don’t take no stock in ’em. When Lobelia gets married, 
Lord Bunger, it shall be in church. I’m thinking of 
St. Paul’s or Westminster Abbey!” 

Her host’s face dropped into such sudden and deep 
gloom that Lobelia thought the pining process had al¬ 
ready begun. 

“Ma,” she pleaded, “Lord Bunger’s mother will for¬ 
bid the marriage if she hears of it. She don’t like Ameri¬ 
cans and she wants Lord Bunger to marry a rich old 
maid that he fairly despises.” 

“Hates, Lady Lobelia, hates,” muttered the lord. “It’ll 
be the death of me, Mrs. Packer, it will indeed, if you 
don’t consent to me and Lady Lobelia getting married. 
I can’t survive it.” 

“Don’t be so hard, ma,” pleaded Lobelia, deeply 


LORD BUNGER PROPOSES 


135 


affected by the devotion of her noble lover, and also 
perhaps by the thought that a bird in the hand might 
be worth two in the bush. She could get this lord and 
it was possible that no suitor with a higher title might 
present himself. “You can come to Scotland with us,” 
she added by way of offering her mother a convincing 
argument. Lord Bunger cast an ineffable look at his 
lady-love. 

“Do say yes,” he urged, seizing Mrs. Packer’s hand 
and squeezing it warmly. “Make us both happy. We 
can take the twelve o’clock train to-night and have it 
tied tight and fast to-morrow before the old lady knows 
a word about it.” 

When Mrs. Packer thought of the glories of Wend- 
ham Castle, despite its fallen fortunes, and of the ex¬ 
quisite delight she would enjoy when gloating over her 
Chicago friends and referring to her son-in-law as a 
Lord and Peer of the Realm of England, she weakened 
and partially consented that the Scotland marriage might 
take place, but she was firm in refusing to take any 
midnight train. She would not run away like a thief in 
the night. All of Lord Lunger’s guests were to take 
the train for London at 3:30 after Blower’s performance 
the next afternoon and it was finally agreed that the two 
Chicagoans and their host would arrange at Waterloo 
Station to get away from the others, take the Scotland 
express and have a quiet wedding on Wednesday morn¬ 
ing. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MR. GASSAWAY’S BURGLAR. 

Early Monday morning, while Mr. Green Gassaway 
was quietly in bed dreaming of the good luck which 
had dropped him into the very thick of English high 
life, in an ancient castle with a hospitable English lord 
as his host,—James, the solemn valet, let himself softly 
into the room to brush and arrange Mr. Gassaway’s 
clothing. James had performed this function a hundred 
times for visitors at Wendham Castle, and always deftly 
and without disturbing the guest’s slumbers. But Fate 
ordained it otherwise on the present occasion. In the 
right hand pocket of the reporter’s trousers was a large 
and curious knife which the ingenious Mr. Gassaway 
had purchased with a view to service on his tramp 
through Europe. The main blade, six inches long, was 
intended not only to cut bread and cheese, but in an 
emergency to serve as a weapon of defense. There was 
also a spoon, a fork and a corkscrew,—all designed to 
assist Mr. Gassaway in his modest housekeeping ar¬ 
rangements. None of these articles, however, was the 
solemn valet accustomed to find in gentlemen’s pockets, 
consequently when James drew this multi-bladed knife 
from the depths of Mr. Gassaway’s pocket his first 
thought was that it was some sort of an infernal machine. 
James had a vague idea that all Americans carried such 
nefarious contrivances and exploded them on short no¬ 
tice and slighter provocation. Afraid to grasp the thing 
firmly, James let it slip from his fingers, and as it fell 
on the floor it made a loud noise. James turned to see 
if the noise had disturbed Mr. Gassaway; apparently 
it had not. At any rate there was no movement on the 
part of the slumberer and James proceeded to remove 

( 136 ) 




“Come,” said the man, “You are wanted .’* 


































































































































MR. GAS SAW AY’S BURGLAR 


137 


the rest of the contents of the reporter’s pockets prelimi¬ 
nary to giving his clothes a thorough brushing. 

Now as a matter of fact the “dull thud” of the knife 
as it struck the hardwood floor did arouse Gassaway; 
he opened his eyes and in a moment dreams of the 
G. A. N. were put to flight. Mr. Gassaway warily 
watched the man who was making so free with his 
pockets and property. Having more experience with 
the humbler side of life than with lords who supply their 
guests with valets, and making no doubt but that a 
burglar was prosecuting his nefarious trade within the 
sacred precincts of Wendham Castle, the author reached 
stealthily under his pillow, drew forth the self-cocking 
revolver he had placed there on retiring, and just as 
the solemn James was fishing up a lot of loose silver 
and a bunch of keys from Mr. Gassaway’s trouser pock¬ 
ets, the author of the future G. A. N. suddenly sat bolt 
upright in bed, presented his revolver and sternly said, 

“Drop it!” 

So noiseless had been the reporter’s movements, James 
did not notice them until he heard the words “drop it!” 
At sight of the revolver the valet gave a yell that was 
heard of the furthest end of the castle, and made a wild 
rush through the door. The bullet which Gassaway let 
fly whizzed past his cheek and buried itself in the wall. 
The collector of pointers leaped Qut of bed and started 
in hot pursuit; the terrified servant flew down the stairs 
and through the halls and drawing-rooms, yelling at 
every step, Gassaway in his night gown almost at his 
heels, the smoking pistol in his hand. It was six o’clock 
in the morning. The pistol-shot, the clatter of flying 
feet, the overturning of chairs and tables, James’ ag¬ 
onized howls for help, Gassaway’s yells of “Stop thief!” 
—all this aroused every inmate of the castle. Heads, 
the owners of which were in varying degrees of appre¬ 
hension and curiosity, protruded from slightly opened 
doors, and the owners of the heads screamed out to know 
what was the matter. 

“Matter?” yelled Gassaway. “There’s a burglar in 


138 


MR. GAS SAW AY’S BURGLAR 


the house. I just shot him. Come on! We’re bound 
to catch him. He darted up into this hall a moment 
ago!” 

At this the maids began to scream. Mrs. Packer put 
her head out of her door and announced that Lobelia 
was about to faint. Lady Lobelia jerked her mother 
back and told her not to talk silly ; the male portion of 
the castle’s occupants were not in a hurry to come out 
and help catch the thief, no doubt thinking it more 
proper to first put themselves in presentable garbs. Thus 
the valiant reporter found himself alone in liis scant 
attire in that dimly-lighted baronial hall, the enemy no 
longer in sight. 

Despite his absorbing love of literature, Mr. Gassaway 
was not ignorant of the arts of war. He had participated 
in more than one border affray, and knew how unpleas¬ 
ant it is to have an enemy “get the drop” on you. Ac¬ 
cordingly, at the instant that the doors opening into the 
hall were slammed to and every head had retired from 
sight, Gassaway stepped quickly back against the wall 
to guard himself from attack in the rear; then he peered 
intently around in the semi-darkness and at length got 
a glimpse of the unlucky valet crouching under a table 
at the far end of the hall. Poor James’ condition was 
not pleasant; his teeth chattered, his frame shivered, he 
was almost in a state of collapse. 

“I give you just one minute to git out of there,” cried 
Gassaway, leveling his revolver. 

“For God’s sake don’t shoot, sir,” implored the un¬ 
happy valet. “It’s only me, James, sir,—his lordship’s 
valet. If you won’t shoot I’ll come out, sir, I will 
indeed.” 

“Come right out and hold up your hands,” commanded 
Mr. Gassaway. The fellow crawled out and held up 
both hands; he did not care for another bullet from the 
doughty reporter’s pistol. 

While James shivered with cold and fright, his hands 
stretched up as high as he could hold them, Gassaway 
yelled at the top of his lungs, “I’ve got him, lord. Tell 


MR. GAS SAW AY’S BURGLAR 


139 


the ladies not to be afraid. I’ve got him at the muzzle 
of my gun.” 

There was a partial opening of doors and thrusting 
out of heads, and finally Lord Bunger stepped into the 
hall robed in a long dressing-gown; he moved cautiously 
at first but when he saw through the dusky light the 
alarming predicament of the usually sedate and well- 
behaved James, he peered around to discover the bloody 
burglar who was holding him up; perceiving no one 
but his guest, the author-reporter, the noble host stepped 
boldly forward and frowned severely. 

“What is all this?” he demanded with an air of pom¬ 
pous authority. “What’s the matter, Gassaway? What 
have you been doing, James?” 

“What have I been doing?” cried James in an injured, 
indignant tone, letting both arms drop to his side. “Not 
a bloomin’ thing except what we agreed on, and I’ll be 
damned if I do it any more if I’m to be fired on and 
shot in the back and hunted about the castle like a wild 
beast. If this is what’s to come of our game, Bunger, 
the sooner we’re out of it the better!” 

“You idiot!” cried the noble master, hoarse with rage 
as he rushed up to the injured servitor, “I’ll kill you 

myself if you don’t hold your tongue! I will, by G-! 

You know me. I won’t stand no fooling!” 

James, pale with a new fear, retreated against the wall. 
Lord Bunger subdued his anger and turned to the re¬ 
porter. “Mr. Gassaway,” he said, wiping his brow, “what 
has James been doing?” 

“James?” echoed Gassaway, beginning to realize that 
something was wrong. “Is that James? I didn’t recog¬ 
nize him in the dark.” 

“You see it’s James,” said the host, gruffly. But, 
whether from prince or pauper, gruffness never disturbed 
Mr. Gassaway’s equanimity. 

“Well, whoever he is,” responded the reporter, cheer¬ 
fully, “I caught him just now in my room going through 
my pockets. I ordered him to drop my things; at sound 



140 


MR. GASS A WAY’S BURGLAR 


of my voice he made a rush to the door, and—I let fly 
at him a shot from my gun.” 

“And a pretty mess you have made of it,” retorted 
the lord with angry disgust. “James is a blooming good 
fellow, he’d no more steal your things than the Prince 
of Wales would. He was obeying my orders—getting 
your things in trim as valets always do at Wendham 
Castle, and you try to kill him for it. You must have 
been dreaming you were out among the bloody Injuns 
of America.” 

“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Gassaway. “On the 
contrary I was sleepily thinking over a chapter for the 
G. A. N. when in creeps your valet. It was rather dark 
in my room; I did not recognize James. I’m not up 
to this valet business anyway; at home I brush my own 
clothes. So when I see a man taking money out of my 
pockets before it’s quite day I take him to be a burglar. 
That’s the up and down of it, lord. If I’d shot James 
I’d have been awfully sorry, but no harm’s done and 
‘All’s well that ends well’.” 

“I am not so sure about that,” growled Lord Bunger. 

“His bullet blowed along my cheek,” moaned the in¬ 
jured James. 

“Miss an inch is as good as a mile,” replied the cheer¬ 
ful Mr. Gassaway. “Come to my room, James, and 
you shall have a sovereign for your scare. I reckon 
it’s worth that much to you and I’m sure it’s worth that 
much to me. It’ll make a special chapter for the G. A. 
N. I’ll go to my room and pickle the pointer while it’s 
hot.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE BARTONS DINE IN GREAT BARRINGTON SQUARE. 

While the Packers were enjoying the glories of Wend- 
ham Castle the Bartons were given a dinner by Lady 
Apohaqui in London. The American ladies would have 
found the dinner dull except for the fact that they were 
meeting members of the English nobility and taking 
note of the manners and customs of a class altogether 
new to them. There was a stout, elderly rector, —very 
heavy, Grace thought—an old lady with lorgnettes, the 
Dowager Countess of Loughboro, a ruddy faced Colonel 
who looked as though his collar was gradually choking 
him into a fit of apoplexy, Mr. Montrose Morton and 
their host. Lady Apohaqui was quite affable. She 
informed Mrs. Barton that she had obtained cards for 
her and daughters to Lady Defeese’s ball, and that 
they would see theje many of the English uppertendom. 

“I am sure, madam,” rejoined Mrs. Barton, “it is 
very kind of you. When we came over we had no ex¬ 
pectation of seeing any great people. We are so demo¬ 
cratic in our country. We have been quite lucky meet¬ 
ing titled gentlemen. Grace, who was that lord we met 
at Windsor?” 

“Lord Bunger.” 

“Lord Bunger?” repeated Lady Apohaqui. “I do 
not remember any Lord Bunger. Charles, do you know 
Lord Bunger?” 

“Never heard of him before,” replied the young peer. 

“We were disappointed,” said Grace, “in not being 
permitted to see Windsor Castle. It seems the Queen 
was there.” 

“Visitors are never allowed to* enter when her Majesty 
is there.” 

“If that is so,” said Clara, “then a countryman of ours 


( 141 ) 


142 


THE BARTONS DINE OUT 


was more favored than usual. As we stood at the gate 
we saw Mr. Blower walking about inside, looking as 
pleased and proud as though he owned the place.” 

“Blower, the showman?” asked Lord Apohaqui. 

“Yes, our cheery fellow-passenger. Grace and I have 
half a mind to apply to Mr. Blower for a place in his 
show. His Prodigies are to perform before the Queen 
and the Royal family. If we could only take a part 
we would get a good look at her Majesty.” 

“It is hardly necessary to make yourself a Prodigy to 
see her Majesty,” returned Lord Apohaqui; “the Ameri¬ 
can Ambassador can get you cards to a drawing-room.” 

“It isn’t worth the trouble,” remarked Mrs. Barton, 
serenely; “I’ve read about the Queen’s drawing-rooms 
and what an awful undertaking they are. It wouldn’t 
pay us to go through with one.” 

“But, mamma,” said Clara, smiling, “think of the 
splendor! Grace and I would be delighted, were it only 
possible for us to be presented.” 

“It is quite possible,” graciously remarked Lady Apo^- 
haqui. “Many American women are presented to the 
Queen.” 

“It must be dreadful for old ladies,” observed Mrs. 
Barton. 

“Why dreadful?” asked the Dowager Countess of 
Loughboro, eyeing the American through her lorgnettes. 

“I call it dreadful for old ladies to wear low neck 
dresses and short sleeves,” calmly replied Mrs. Barton. 
“I wouldn’t do it, not for—not if the Queen were to 
make me a Duchess. You English do look at things 
so differently from the way we consider them.” 

“In what do we differ?” asked the Dowager Countess, 
her glasses still in position. 

“Why, pretty nearly every way,” returned Mrs. Bar¬ 
ton, sweetly. “What is the use of such great high walls 
around your grounds? In Alabama we don’t have walls 
around our yards. We want every one to see our pretty 
lawns and flowers. It is very dismal to drive about and 
see only brick walls. And then, rich as the Queen is, 


THE BARTONS DINE OUT 


143 


I’m astonished she lives in such a place as Windsor 
Castle.” 

“What!” gasped the Dowager Countess of Loughboro, 
“isn’t Windsor Castle grand enough for you Ameri¬ 
cans?” 

“It’s entirely too grand,” replied Mrs. Barton. “It 
looks like a great big prison. Americans shut up lunatics 
and murderers in places with high walls like those at 
Windsor. I don’t see how the Queen contents herself 
with such a gloomy place.” 

“Oh, mamma,” cried Grace, with a smile and a blush, 
“I thought Windsor Castle a magnificent old building, 
just suited for a Queen.” 

“My dear,” replied her mother, “I don’t say it isn’t 
suited for a Queen; Queens, I reckon, are not allowed, 
or supposed, to live like other people. But you know, 
Grace, no matter how rich an American woman is, she 
doesn’t shut herself up in a walled castle as if she ex¬ 
pected enemies to plant cannon in front of it to besiege 
her. Of course though,” added Mrs. Barton, reflectively, 
“people so old-fashioned as to have Queens will have 
castles to keep ’em in. But I wouldn’t like it if I were 
Queen.” 

“I am sure. Lady Apohaqui,” said Mr. Montrose 
Morton, wishing to make amends for his countrywoman’s 
gaucherie, “we Americans might profit by adopting 
many of your English customs. We are too democratic; 
every year brings a new proof of how desirable it would 
be for the United States to possess a solid aristocracy.” 

“How do you mean solid?” asked Lord Apohaqui. 

“I mean fixed by law,” explained Mr. Morton. “We 
have our four hundred, the aristocracy of New York, 
and so recognized by all people of fashion; but, my lord, 
such is the power of demagogism in our country that 
there is as yet no legal recognition of titles nor of the 
Four Hundred.” 

Grace and Clara looked at Mr. Morton, a comical 
little smile quivering on their lips. Lord Apohaqui, 


144 


THE BARTONS DINE OUT 


curious to understand that smile, asked Grace how she 
viewed the question of an American Aristocracy. 

“Oh!” replied Grace lightly, “we are from the South, 
where there isn’t even a sign of a Four Hundred. We 
are plain, old-fashioned democrats who believe in equal 
rights, as Jefferson did.” 

“Of course,” said Mr. Morton, reflectively, “aristoc¬ 
racy must have wealth to support it. There is not much 
wealth in the Southern States of America, consequently 
one finds there little of the spirit of an aristocratic leisure 
class. Miss Barton is not to be blamed for failing to 
advocate the Four Hundred, although,”—with a graci¬ 
ous bow,—“no one would more adorn the charmed 
circle.” 

Grace’s eyes danced with merriment, but she assumed 
a serious air as she said: “Mr. Morton, your compli¬ 
ment, coming from a member of New York’s famous set, 
is more than I expected. Were I not hedged in on 
both sides I would rise and make you my very best 
dancing-school courtesy. Please take the will for the 
deed.” 

“Humph,” thought Lady Apohaqui, who all along 
had been critically observing Grace. “She is too sharp. 
I fear she is self-willed and opinionated.” 

“She’s as bright as she’s beautiful,” thought Lord 
Apohaqui, glancing at his mother to see how she was 
affected. 

Mr. Morton now drew a comparison between the 
vulgar crowds which push their way into the White 
House receptions, and the elegant drawing-rooms of 
the Queen. 

“Is it possible,” asked Lady Apohaaui, “that anybody 
may go to your President’s receptions?” 

“Yes, anybody, whether a millionaire Senator or a 
street-sweeper. No costume is prescribed, no courtesy 
required. The wife of a millionaire may be elbowed by 
her own cook.” 

“How extraordinary,” muttered the Dowager Count¬ 
ess, across the table. 


THE BARTONS DINE OUT 


145 


“How perfectly monstrous!” chimed in the hostess. 

“Of course it’s monstrous,” assented Mr. Morton; “we 
ol the Four Hundred know that, but the common rabble 
outnumber us, consequently we seldom attend the Presi¬ 
dent’s receptions.” 

“Fancy Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle over¬ 
run by the mob!” exclaimed the Dowager Countess. 
“It would kill her Majesty. She could not stand it a 
single night.” 

‘‘As long as the rabble have the same right to vote 
as men of wealth and social position,” said Mr. Morton, 
“we cannot hope for anything better, unless, indeed, the 
Senate comes to the rescue. The Senate is largely 
composed of millionaires, of men who' understand and 
appreciate the responsibilities of wealth and who know 
the dangers inherent to democracy.” 

“How could the Senate remedy matters?” ashed the 
ruddy-faced Colonel. 

“I think sooner or later the Senate will take the ques¬ 
tion in hand and use its confirming power to give the 
great political positions to those whose wealth entitles 
them to such prominence. It is absurd to allow as much 
political power to a beggar who hasn’t a dollar as to 
a railroad president who has millions.” 

Grace kept her eyes downcast and her lips tightly 
closed. Once or twice Lord Apohaqui thought she was 
about to break out with impetuosity, whether of approval 
or disapprove he could not tell. Presently he said: 

“Miss Barton, do you agree with Mr. Morton, or 
have you never given such subjects attention?” 

“If I thought Mr. Morton’s predictions would come 
true,” replied Grace, “I would emigrate to'—to Africa, 
or to any other benighted land, rather than live in a 
country so false to its principles as America would be 
should she establish an aristocratic class.” 

“Don’t talk of emigrating,” said Mrs. Barton, “I don’t 
wish to leave Alabama, and there isn’t the least danger 
of the Senate doing such dreadful things. Mr. Morton 
knows New York is the only city that has a Four Hun- 


146 


THE BARTONS DINE OUT 


dred; no other city wants such an organization, vague 
and unwritten as it is. Grace, you heard Mrs. Packer 
say how Chicago tried to get up a Four Hundred but 
couldn’t do it. New York’s uppertendom can’t make 
dukes and lords any more than I can make boots and 
shoes.” 

Everybody laughed, even Mr. Montrose Morton; then 
the Four Hundred were dropped and peace reigned un¬ 
til, in an unlucky moment, the Dowager Countess across 
the table asked Mr. Morton if there was any probability 
of Church and State being united in America as they 
were in England. Mr. Morton didn’t know; that was 
a subject he had not turned his attention to. 

“It is a very important question,” said the Dowager 
Countess, who was a staunch Church of England woman. 

“Yes,” said the portly rector, “it is a very important 
question. A people without an established Church must 
greatly suffer for want of true spiritual instruction.” 

“I don’t think,” said Mrs. Barton, placidly, “that an 
established Church would suit our country. You have 
no idea, Lady Apohaqui, how shocking it seems to 
Americans to see people buying and selling the right 
to preach the Gospel of our Savior. That’s what happens 
under your system. Only yesterday Grace saw in the 
London “Times” an advertisement of an advowson for 
sale. Some lord had a church living to dispose of. The 
advertisement said that the present rector was old and 
likely to die at any moment and the lord of the manor 
would sell the right to preach to the highest bidder. 
I don’t think anything in America can seem as odd to 
you as this seems to us.” 

Then Mrs. Barton proceeded to mention two or three 
other English, customs that struck her as peculiar. One 
was that of people in mourning going to balls and 
dancing. 

“This is not so odd as it seems,” said Lord Apohaqui, 
smiling; “whenever a foreign potentate dies, our Court 
orders thirty days’ mourning. Nobody really grieves 
when the King of Siam dies, or when the Shah of Persia 


THE BARTONS DINE OUT 


147 


is assassinated; some prince or princess is always dying, 
and if people stopped dancing because they have to go 
into mourning for them, they would have to give up 
dancing altogether.” 

“In that case,” said Mrs. Barton, “I would not stop 
dancing, but I would stop putting on mourning for peo¬ 
ple I don’t know and don’t care for. The President’s 
receptions may not be all they should be, as Mr. Morton 
says, but there you don’t see people in mourning, Lord 
Apohaqui, and you don’t see people sticking each other 
with pins.” 

Lord Apohaqui inwardly groaned. He knew Mr. 
Montrose Morton’s eulogy of English society could not 
bear too close inspection; the young nobleman himself 
had witnessed disgraceful scrambling in some of the 
most aristocratic drawing-rooms in London, and he only 
hoped that Mr. Morton’s strictures of the President’s 
White House receptions might be forgotten. But in 
her innocent way, Mrs. Barton was merciless. 

“Stick each other with pins?” feebly asked—almost 
gasped— the Dowager Countess across the table. 

“Yes, they do that in London, I’ve heard. Maybe 
the London papers don’t print such things, but Grace 
saw it in the Talledega ‘Appeal’. There was an awful 
crowd at one of the Queen’s drawing-rooms and a titled 
woman tried her best to see what was going on, but 
couldn’t because in front of her sat a stout woman with 
bare arms and neck and shoulders. The ‘Appeal’ said 
that after leaning first to one side, then to the other, the 
great lady deliberately took a long pin out of her hair 
and jabbed it in the fat woman’s shoulder.” 

“Yes, I remember reading that,” admitted Grace. 
“The paper said the large woman gave a scream that 
was heard all over the room.” 

“What puzzled me,” continued Mrs. Barton, “was 
the aggressor’s motive. The large woman didn’t get out 
of her way and I don’t suppose the other woman ex¬ 
pected her to. She was wedged in so tight there was no 


148 


THE BARTONS DINE OUT 


getting away, and the excitable person could not see 
a whit better after using that pin than she did before.” 

The English people at the table were polite enough, or 
curious enough, to give their guests full play in their 
exhibition of democratic enthusiasm and lack of respect 
for other people’s saints and loves. When finally the 
dinner party was over and Lord Apohaqui found him¬ 
self alone with his mother, she declared herself unequivo¬ 
cally opposed to the match. “She won’t do at all,” 
she said. “Miss Barton is not the girl for a British noble¬ 
man’s wife.” 

“What is the objection?” asked the son. 

“She has entirely too much temper; she has had her 
own way too much. Her opinions are not those of a 
girl in our station; besides, her mother-” 

“I don’t propose to marry the mother,” interrupted 
the young man frowningly. “The girl is young and 
pretty, in fact by long odds the prettiest girl I know.” 

“With your title and your appearance, Charles,”—be¬ 
gan the mother. The young man laughed. 

“Mother, I don’t find my appearance as attractive as 
you seem to suppose. As to my title, every woman in 
England knows that a title and a dilapidated castle are 
all I have got. What English girl will give youth and 
beauty and money for a title?” 

“Plenty of them would,” asserted Lady Apohaqui. 
“However, Charles, since the trip to Falmouth has been 
planned, we shall see more of the girl and her family 
before we utterly abandon the alliance. I must say, 
though, that, from the way things now look, a marriage 
with Miss Barton would involve you in disaster. Both 
mother and daughter seem little short of being anar¬ 
chists ” 



CHAPTER XV. 

LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED. 

On the Monday following the dinner at Great Barring¬ 
ton Square, Lord and Lady Apohaqui, accompanied by 
their guests, the Bartons and Mr. Montrose Morton, 
started for Brighton. “The weather is so beautiful,” 
said Lord Apohaqui, “that instead of going direct to 
the castle we shall go to Brighton and then, after tak¬ 
ing luncheon on the hotel piazza in full view of the sea, 
we shall drive to Falmouth. It is only twelve miles 
from Brighton, and the road runs through a pretty bit 
of country.” 

Lord Apohaqui had written his steward ordering 
carriages sent to Brighton, but William, the solemn valet, 
neglected to post his master’s letter until that same Mon¬ 
day morning, consequently when the party arrived at 
Brighton the lord’s carriages were not there. “Perhaps 
they went to the wrong hotel,” suggested Lord Apoha¬ 
qui, and directed William to inquire at the leading 
hostelries. When he returned it was with a mixture 
of good and bad news. “They haven’t sent no carriages, 
m’lud, but Mr. Covey of the Royal Oak says as he’ll 
be happy if your lordship will take his carry-all which 
has four seats and will hold everything quite comfort¬ 
able, sir.” 

This untoward incident annoyed Lord Apohaqui; he 
did not like his guests to think the servants at Falmouth 
so indifferent to his orders. However, there seemed to 
be no help for it and they started off in the long carry- 
all of the Royal Oak Hotel. 

In winter, saturated with fog and mist, England is 
dreary beyond expression; but it is brilliantly beautiful 
in the crisp, invigorating air of a cloudless June day. 
As the young lord and his party drove along the road 

( 149 ) 


150 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


leading north from Brighton they gave themselves up to 
the enjoyment of nature. Only once was there anything 
like a discussion; that was when they were passing a 
grand old country-seat surrounded by a deer-park and 
shaded by stately oaks. Mr. Montrose Morton, who 
occupied the middle seat with Miss Clara, said sedately: 
“Don’t you admire a castle and grounds like that?” 

“They are beautiful, indeed. Nobody could help ad¬ 
miring a castle with trees and a deer-park.” 

“Then,” continued Mr. Morton logically, “why do you 
not admire the system that produces such beautiful re¬ 
sults?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Clara. 

“Why, haven’t you and your sister condemned the 
English system of titles? Why are the counties in 
America not dotted with parks and p.alaces? Because we 
have no hereditary nobility. In our democratic country 
property is cut up after a man’s death into small portions; 
every child, no matter if there be a dozen, may be given 
an equal portion. This continual leveling process pre¬ 
vents the erection of stately country houses.” 

“Such a system as obtains here must cultivate selfish¬ 
ness,” said Clara. “I’d rather live in a cottage and see 
all my brothers and sisters also in cottages, than live 
in a grand castle while they lived in poverty. People 
had better be poor than unjust, and it is unjust for one 
child to inherit all, or nearly all the property.” 

Mrs. Barton and Lady Apohaqui were on the seat 
behind Mr. Montrose Morton and Clara. On the last 
seat sat William with folded arms, as upright as though 
he had swallowed a poker. Grace was on the front seat 
with Lord Apohaqui who was driving. Mrs. Barton 
interrupted her conversation with Lady Apohaqui to lean 
forward and observe: “I think Clara is quite right, Mr. 
Morton. It does make men selfish,—no doubt of it. 
Only last winter, when Cecil Haverton, the half-brother 
of Lord Harleigh, was at Mrs. Pine Knickerbocker’s 
ball in New York a cablegram was brought in. Mrs. 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


151 


Knickerbocker was with Mr. Haverton when he read 
the dispatch, and what do you suppose he said?” 

“Can’t imagine,” said Mr. Morton, with a bored air. 

“He reached out his hand and said: ‘Congratulate 
me, Mrs. Knickerbocker, I have just become an earl!’ 
The cablegram was from England telling of his brother’s 
sudden death, and Cecil Haverton rejoiced because it 
elevated him to the peerage. I call that heartless selfish- 
Mr. Morton.” 

Mr. Morton bowed and Mrs. Barton continued, “This 
way of giving everything to the eldest son makes men 
mercenary. Mrs. Knickerbocker says Lord Haverton 
made no secret of his desire to marry money; he ad¬ 
mitted he was looking for an American heiress. There 
are some American men mean enough to do this, but 
they hide it all they can. We don’t approve of mer¬ 
cenary matches: do you, Lady Apohaqui?” 

“I don’t think we English are quite as sentimental as 
you Americans,” returned the English lady, smiling.' 
“We believe in arranging suitable matches between suit¬ 
able families. Prudent mothers are more successful than 
rash daughters. The young people can learn to love 
after marriage.” 

“But if they don’t—how awful!” persisted the senti¬ 
mental Mrs. Barton. Grace put an end to the discussion 
by attracting her mother’s attention. 

“Look, mamma! Lord Apohaqui says the place 
yonder is Falmouth Castle.” 

The turrets of the castle could just be seen above the 
foliage of the trees in the surrounding park. When they 
reached the gate no keeper came out to meet them. 

“William, see what is the matter with Hodgers,” com¬ 
manded Lord Apohaqui, impatiently. The dignified 
William unfolded his arms, clambered down from his 
high seat and knocked at the door of the lodge house. 
There was no response. William pounded on the door, 
but still no Hodgers. 

“Upon my word,” muttered the young lord angrily, 


152 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


“these beggars are sailing with a high hand! I wonder 
if they have deserted the place.” 

“Only idling, Charles,” suggested his mother, “or frol¬ 
icking—perhaps intoxicated.” 

A few minutes later the carry-all drew up in front of 
the castle entrance. Strange noises came from within— 
loud laughter, hand-clapping, stamping of feet, shouts 
and yells. “They must be demented,” exclaimed Lady 
Apohaqui. “It sounds like a lunatic asylum.” Her 
son’s face became stern. The party alighted and stood 
before the door, the knocker of which William was 
pounding vigorously. Only the lunatic noises re¬ 
sponded,—the loud guffaws, the stamping of feet and 
the clapping of hands. William continued to beat the 
huge iron knocker, until at last a maidser-vant appeared. 
At sight of Lord Apohaqui she gave a piercing scream 
and fled down the long hall as if she had seen a ghost. 

Perfectly dumbfounded, Lord Apohaqui entered, fol¬ 
lowed by the entire party. A moment later they stood 
at the threshold of the great oak dining-hall whence 
issued the boisterous sounds. The scene before them 
was astonishing. In the center of the room, holding a 
billiard cue, was a slender girl; surrounding her were 
six burly menservants, apparently using their utmost 
strength to wrest the cue from the girl who seemed to 
hold on without the least exertion. The excited crowd 
was composed of the castle servants and Lord Bunger’s 
visitors, among whom, to the amazement of the new¬ 
comers, they saw Rhett Calhoun, Green Gassaway and 
the Packers. The hilarious crowd did not perceive the 
new arrivals. Mrs. Packer, resplendent in a gorgeous 
Worth gown, was the first to see them. 

“Goodness gracious me!” she exclaimed, with a pat¬ 
ronizing smile at the Bartons. “When did you arrive 
at the castle? And Lord Apohaqui too? This is truly 
a surprise. Lord Bunger—sly man—never told us he 
expected you!” 

“Well, I declare,” cried Gassaway, jovially, bustling 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


153 


up with a beaming face, “we had no idea you’d be down. 
How are you, lord? This is a jolly crowd, isn’t it?” 

“What is going on?” demanded Lord Apohaqui. “Has 
the place become converted into an insane asylum?” 

“Insane with mirth, lord, that’s all; innocent amuse¬ 
ment, Blower’s Prodigies—quite the fad now to see 
Blower’s Prodigies. Lord Bunger brought ’em down 
for the special benefit of his guests.” 

“Lord who?” sharply questioned Lord Apohaqui. 

“The lord of this castle, over there in the corner. 
Between you and me, lord, he’s dead gone—sure case, 
—splendid girl—rolling in wealth,;—good catch, even for 
a lord.” 

Apohaqui looked in the direction Gassaway indicated. 
There, snugly apart from the herd of excited servitors, 
sat Lord Bunger and Lady Lobelia, apparently as happy 
and serene as if they were entirely alone. 

“Is that Lord Bunger?” asked Lord Apohaqui. 

“Yes,” whispered Gassaway. “Hasn’t he seen you and 
the ladies yet? I’ll call him. ‘Lord Bunger,’ he shouted, 
in stentorian tones that went entirely over the hubbub 
of the crowd. “You’re wanted here, Lord Bunger.” 

Lady Lobelia’s lover lifted his eyes from the lily-white 
fingers he was caressing, and cast them toward the sound 
of Gassaway’s voice. As he looked, a strange, deadly 
illness seemed to attack him; the ruddiness of his cheeks 
gave way to ghastly pallor; he dropped the fingers of 
his adored; a shudder went over his body and he fell 
flat to the floor. Lobelia screamed and knelt by his 
side. Every eye turned to see what was the matter, and 
—the whole crowd of laughing, shouting servants made 
a rush for the doors. The silence they left behind was 
broken by Lobelia’s wails over the prostrate Bunger. 
“Oh, please send for a doctor!” she cried. “Don’t let 
him die! Send for a doctor!” 

The sudden disappearance of his audience puzzled Mr. 
Blower; the performance came to a standstill; and when, 
looking about for an explanation of the phenomenon, 
he espied Lord Apohaqui near the door, a grin over- 


154 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


spread his face. Striding up to the nobleman, he made 
a theatrical obeisance. 

“De-lighted to see you, my lord! This is a most un¬ 
expected pleasure! You should have come sooner,—the 
performance is now about over.” 

The noble lord did not receive this in the friendly 
manner expected. “How dare you degrade this Hall 
with your vulgar performance?” he demanded angrily. 

At this insulting question Mr. Blower’s western blood 
took fire. 

‘Til have you know, sir,” he cried, “that I’m an 
American gentleman; and an American gentleman, sir, 
is a sovereign; and an American sovereign, sir, is the 
equal of any white skinned lord that ever hopped around 
on two feet!” 

“Crazy as a Bedlamite!” muttered the lord, staring 
at Blower in amazement; then he strode across the hall 
to the distant corner where Lobelia was kneeling by the 
side of her prostrate lover. Mrs. Packer stood by look¬ 
ing on with an anxious face. Rhett Calhoun was feeling 
Lord Bunger’s pulse. A little to one side stood Mr. 
Gassaway, note-book in hand, surveying the situation. 

“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Packer,” said Rhett, as he 
ceased his examination. “Nothing serious is the matter. 
He will be all right in a few minutes.” 

Lord Apohaqui paid little attention to Bunger on the 
floor, but he eyed Mrs. Packer and her daughter in no 
pleasant way. “Madam,” he said to the elder woman, 
sarcasm in his tone, “may I ask how it happens that 
I find you and your daughter in this house?” 

All the pride of the Packers and the Packer millions 
was aroused at this question. 

“You may ask all you please,” she snapped, her heart 
swelling with indignation, “but I’ll answer as little as I 
please. Mr. Calhoun,” she added, turning to Rhett, 
“the lord of this castle being struck down by the hand 
of God, so to speak, as your countrywoman, I claim 
your protection from insolent intruders in this castle.” 

Rhett assured her that Lord Apohaqui had no inten- 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


155 


tion of insulting her; Gassaway also spoke up: “Of 
course he doesn’t mean to insult you, Mrs. Packer. It’s 
all a little comedy. We haven’t quite caught on to the 
game, lord, but I’m taking notes. An interesting situa¬ 
tion, very!” 

“Don’t let him die, ma!” wailed Lobelia, stroking her 
lover’s hand. “Oh, can’t you do something, somebody?” 

“We can put him in a chair,” said Gassaway, briskly. 
“That’ll bring him around. Rhett, just give him a lift; 
I’ll take his head, you take his feet,—there, heave away.” 
Despite Lord Bunger’s heavy weight they succeeded in 
lifting him into an arm-chair, where he sat, a pitiable 
object, his head hanging on his breast, his arms limp by 
his sides. 

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Lord Apohaqui. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” answered Rhett. “He 
appeared in perfect health until a few moments ago 
when he suddenly fell to the floor.” 

“Mr. Calhoun,” said Lord Apohaqui, “you talk and 
act like a sane man, though I find you here with a set 
of lunatics. Can you explain how these people came 
to this house? Plow came you here?” 

“That is easily answered; we are all here by the invi¬ 
tation of Lord Bunger.” 

“Who is Lord Bunger?” 

“The gentleman you see there in the chair. We are 
his guests. He invited us to visit his castle, and here 
we are.” 

“Does he claim to be master here?” 

“That’s about the size of it, lord,” Gassaway answered, 
cheerfully. 

“He a lord? Why, he’s my valet! The infernal scamp! 
I’ll send him to jail for this.” 

An anxious, pale little face had been peering in at 
a side door watching the proceedings. The owner of 
this face now bounded forward, fell on her knees at 
Lord Apohaqui’s feet and burst out into an agonized 
prayer to the angry nobleman. 

“Oh, my lord,” cried Jenny, “don’t be too hard on 


156 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


Jim! It’s only a lark, m’lud, indeed and indeed nothin’ 
else but a lark. He never meant no harm to nobody. 
Oh! dear m’lud, don’t send him to jail. Me and Jim’s 
been promised in marriage these two years!” 

“Leave the room,” commanded Lord Apohaqui, stern¬ 
ly, “I’ll attend to Bunger.” 

At this speech Miss Lobelia’s face turned very pale, 
but, to show her scorn and her disbelief in the cruel 
statements about her lover, she leaned over the uncon¬ 
scious Bunger and took his hand and held it tightly. 

While this was going on, Lady Apohaqui and her 
guests had returned to the drawing-room. Lady Apo¬ 
haqui' treated the disturbance lightly. “It is nothing 
serious,” she said. “Not expecting their master—he 
so seldom appears among them,—the servants were hav¬ 
ing a little frolic. They will soon subside into their 
proper places.” 

“We are surprised,” said Grace, “at seeing Mrs. and 
Miss Packer here. When they left the Metropole they 
told us they had been invited by Lord Bunger to visit 
Wendham Castle. Is that castle in this neighborhood?” 

“There is no Wendham Castle about here,” returned 
Lady Apohaqui, “and I never heard of Lord Bunger 
until you mentioned his name. Perhaps the Packers 
can explain.” 

After a few words between Lord Apohaqui, Rhett 
and Gassaway, the two Americans undertook the task 
of explaining matters to Mrs. Packer. “You mean to 
say,” demanded that lady, “that he’s no lord at all?” 

“That is what Lord Apohaqui declares; he’s only a 
valet.” 

“I don’t believe it. It’s spite work. Some people,” 
darting a glance at the Bartons, “envy my daughter. 
It’s envy as is at the bottom of this!” 

“As you please, Mrs. Packer,” returned Rhett coldly. 
“We have warned you,—that is all we can do.” 

“But he’s engaged to Lobelia. He wanted Lobelia to 
marry him right away.” 

“Miss Packer’s money,” insinuated Gassaway with a 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


157 


grin, “would be a great windfall to a valet. No wonder 
he wanted to hurry up the marriage.” 

“I’ll have the law on him!” indignantly screamed 
Mrs. Packer, when at length she realized the situation, 
“I’ll have him arrested this very day.” 

However, Rhett and Gassaway had but little trouble 
in convincing the irate Chicagoan that silence was the 
wisest policy, and when Lord Apohaqui understood 
matters his good humor returned; he made peace with 
Mr. Blower and his Prodigies, as well as with the Chi¬ 
cago ladies, and invited them all to prolong their- visit 
until the next day. The invitation, however, was de¬ 
clined; and they all returned to London that evening. 

Investigation disclosed the fact that Hunger’s “lark” 
was far from being as innocent as Jenny declared. True, 
his trip to London was originally for the sake of a lark 
during his master’s absence in America. Then, upon 
meeting Rhett Calhoun, he pretended to be of the nobil¬ 
ity merely for the foolish fun of astonishing the Ameri¬ 
can with his lordly airs. But when he met the Packers, 
more serious designs of deceiving took possession of 
his brain. He bribed the servants at Jfalmouth Castle 
to call him “my lord” by promising fabulous sums when 
he captured his American heiress; and it was conclu¬ 
sively shown that he meant to elope to Scotland with 
Lobelia. In spite of all this, and to avoid further scandal, 
his punishment was limited to dismissal from service at 
Falmouth Castle. The Packers, doubtless, felt suffi¬ 
ciently sore over the events of the past few days; would 
they not suffer greater humiliation were the affair made 
public? And how could it help becoming public if 
Bunger were taken to jail and tried? “Of course it 
couldn’t help becoming public,” said Lord Apohaqui. 
“You are right, Miss Barton. I’ll simply turn the fellow 
out, though he richly deserves severe punishment.” 

This was said as they drove back to the castle after 
biding adieu to the Americans at the station. It was a 
beautiful June day; the sun had sunk below the western 


158 


LORD BUNGER IS EXPOSED 


hills but the afterglow was so brilliant it seemed to give 
a tinge of red to the grass and flowers and trees. 

Grace was bright, gay and interested in the objects 
around her; but when Lord Apohaqui endeavored to 
draw the conversation back to personal matters she was 
either silent, or else she abruptly broached some other 
subject. 

Notwithstanding these indirect rebuffs, Lord Apoha¬ 
qui felt delighted with his drive. If not effusive, Grace 
was at any rate friendly and cordial; this led the young 
Englishman to believe that when the time came for him 
to pluck his pear, the pear would prove, just then, ripe 
and ready to be plucked. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


FROM PALACE TO PRISON. 

When the train from Falmouth reached Paddington 
station Mr. Blower and the Prodigies drove off for the 
Alhambra theater in a procession of hansom cabs; the 
Packers, greatly crestfallen, their pride deeply wounded, 
repaired to the Metropole with the intention of immedi¬ 
ately leaving England and seeking on the Continent to 
forget their cruel humiliation. Rliett and Gassaway re¬ 
turned to Mrs. Ruggles on Montague Place. The author 
of the future G. A. N. urged Rhett to join him on a 
tramp trip through Germany, but Rhett declined, de¬ 
claring he meant to remain some time longer in Lon¬ 
don. “Ah! I see,” grinned Gassaway. “I appreciate 
the sentiment that prompts you to forswear Germany; 
lovely woman always carries the day, even against the 
charms of tramping.” 

Rhett laughed at this, but he felt SO' guilty that he 
turned his head away to hide the flush that flew to 
his face. Had it come to this, that he was blushing 
about her? Had it come to be a fact for him that there 
was a “her”—a one particular “her” in the world? 

“No,” continued Gassaway, pleasantly, “I don’t blame 
you, Rhett. But you had better keep an eye on that 
lord; he’s a good-looking chap, and you know it’s the 
fashion for American girls to marry lords when they 
get a chance.” 

“You think then that she will get a chance?” asked 
Rhett with an air of indifference, although he had to 
keep silent a moment to stop the fast beating his heart 
set up at Gassaway’s remark. 

“Get a chance? Of course she will. Even a blind 
man can see he’s dead gone on her; moreover, he doubt- 

( 159 ) 


160 


FROM PALACE TO PRISON 


less has an eye on her money. From all appearances, 
he needs cash. Many of these lords do.” 

“The shame of it is that they have the impudence to 
come to America to look for that cash,” said Rhett, 
angrily. “It’s a degradation to American womanhood 
to—to put itself in the European markets to be bought 
by titled paupers.” 

“Humph!” returned the reporter, jovially, “that view 
of it is especially exasperating, considering the many 
nice young men in America they might choose from. 
But my dear boy,” reflectively, “there’s another view 
to take of it. These rich American girls do not go to 
European matrimonial markets to sell themselves,—they 
go to buy; they want a title and they buy the best man 
they can find who has a title to sell.” 

“Titles be blown!” exclaimed Rhett, fiercely. “When 
you talk of American girls buying to themselves a title 
I feel like pitching the whole nobility into the sea. 
Such things are enough to make a fellow an anarchist!” 

“Oh! that reminds me,” interrupted the reporter, “that 
we are to meet a real, flesh-and-blood, anarchist to¬ 
night.” And so they were, although the name of anar¬ 
chist could hardly be applied, in all fairness, to the man 
in question. 

During the course of his explorations in the East 
End of London, Gassaway had made the acquaintance 
of a certain labor agitator named Robert Racketts. This 
man invited Gassaway to attend a demonstration of the 
unemployed at Trafalgar Square, and the author of the 
future G. A. N., anxious to see every phase of London 
life, accepted the invitation. During the day he had 
asked Rhett to accompany him. 

“You know, my dear fellow, variety is the spice of life, 
and you’ll find plenty of variety at this labor demon¬ 
stration. Agitator Racketts, who is going to speak, will 
make you forget all about your troubles with Lord Apo- 
haqui and Miss Barton.” 

They went. Racketts began his speech by an attack 
on the higher classes. He spoke of the pensions work- 


FROM PALACE TO PRISON 


161 


ing men and women are obliged to pay to men who never 
worked a day in all their lives; then he branched off to 
the House of Lords, telling how it thwarts the will of 
the people. These stock complaints, dear to the heart 
of the British agitator, were vociferously applauded; but 
he was very differently received when he began praising 
America and spoke of the great Republic as an infinite 
improvement over the British monarchy. The English 
workman is as proud and jealous of his country, as the 
most rabid, boastful and offensive jingo is of his. He 
will complain and complain of taxes and oppression, 
but the minute you tell him that in America or elsewhere 
this or that is better than in England, he begins to look 
black and—you had better quit. Well! It’s human 
nature. 

At first the crowd refrained from hooting and listened 
out of curiosity; but when they heard continued depre¬ 
cation of England and praise of America, they com¬ 
menced to whistle and howl. “What’s the bloke givin’ 
us?” shouted a brawny coal-heaver. “Why don’t he 

stay in America and be d-d!” shouted another. The 

mob surged forward, sweeping Rhett and Gassaway off 
the curbing. Gassaway’s blood was up in a jiffy, he 
turned around and glared at the mob. The coal-heaver 
made a pass at his head. The agile reporter dodged 
and like a flash planted his fist in his assailant’s face. 
The fellow staggered, then rushed at Gassaway and in 
a moment both men were rolling on the ground. Rhett 
sprang to his comrade’s assistance; some of the mob 
then pitched in to help the coal-heaver, and in a moment 
the melee was general. There was a cry of “The bobbies! 
the bobbies!” quickly followed by the arrival of the 
police, who laid lustily about with their clubs until the 
crowd melted like snow under a summer sun. 

Rhett and Gassaway remained and despite their pro¬ 
tests were taken into custody. Appearances were cer¬ 
tainly against them. Rhett had an ugly cut on. his 
cheek and Gassaway’s face was bruised and bleeding. 
Inasmuch as the police had no means of knowing that 



162 


FROM PALACE TO PRISON 


they were not the aggressors, their arrest was in truth 
not the outrage Rhett imagined. 

“We shall demand redress,” he hotly exclaimed, as 
the officers marched them along the street. “American 
gentlemen, assaulted by a lot of ruffians, are arrested 
while the ruffians go free. We demand instant release.” 

“If you don’t step lively we’ll release you with a pair 
of handcuffs!” retorted the policeman, gripping Rhett’s 
arm tighter. 

“Oh, come now,” 'interposed Gassaway, gaily. Even 
in the thick of the melee he had not lost his good 
humor. “Come now, Mr. Officer, you’re laying it on 
a little thick, I reckon. Handcuffs would be carrying 
the joke a little too far.” 

“What’s that?” demanded the officer, sharply. Mr. 
Gassaway’s cheerfulness under such circumstances aston¬ 
ished the policeman. 

“I said, Mr. Officer, and I say it again,—‘no handcuffs, 
if you please.’ We are Southern American gentlemen. 
We submit to law; you see that. But we do not sub¬ 
mit to indignities! no, not while life lasts. When we 
give our word of honor that we will accompany you, 
that is sufficient. Southern gentlemen, Mr. Officer, 
never break their word.” 

The London “bobby”, amused at this genuine speci¬ 
men of a self-advertising American “gentleman”, felt re¬ 
assured, and did not produce the threatened bracelets; 
but neither did he relax the tightness of his hold on 
his prisoner’s arm. 

“If you only knew it,” continued Gassaway in his 
usual cheerful manner, “apart from my word of honor 
as a Southern gentleman, there isn’t the slightest danger 
that I, Green Gassaway, of New Orleans, La., U. S. A., 
will try to run away. My friend may not have the same 
interest that I have, yet even Rhett can not regret this 
experience; for me, Mr. Officer, it is simply invaluable. 
I haven’t the slightest notion of running away from it; 
it’s too full of the richest sort of pointers.” Gassaway 
instinctively reached toward his pocket to see if his note- 


FROM PALACE TO PRISON 


163 


book was there, whereupon the policeman, supposing 
that he intended to seize his pistol, grabbed him and 
gave him a sharp jerk and cried: “None of that, if you 
don’t want to get into trouble.” 

“Zounds,” exclaimed the reporter, rubbing his arm, 
“this fellow actually wants to rob me of my pointers. 
But you can’t do it, Mr. Officer. I’ve got a photo of 
the affair in my think-tank; and, lord! what a chapter 
it’ll make!” 

The “bobby” made no reply to this outburst, regard¬ 
ing his prisoner as half-witted as well as a disturber 
of the peace. Rhett, deeply disgusted at the course 
events had taken, walked on in moody silence, but the 
irrepressible Gassaway kept up his bantering. 

“What luck!” he exclaimed, as the key turned on 
them in a cell at the Holloway Police Station. “Who’d 
have thought, Rhett, that law-abiding people like you 
and me would be locked up in a police station? A 
sensitive old lady, the Queen. If a fellow defends himself 
from ruffians and thugs it disturbs her peace and the 
bobbies run him in. Just let me have that stool, Rhett, 
I want to pickle my pointers.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE BARTON GO SHOPPING. 

In the meantime Grace Barton was making consider¬ 
able headway in Lady Apohaqui’s good opinion. There 
was no mistaking the innate refinement of the girl, nor 
was there doubt as to her grace and beauty. “Had 
she only been reared in England,” sighed the Countess, 
“she would have adorned a dukedom.” And then the 
high lady would take a hopeful view of the case; the 
girl was young enough to be reformed, to be anglicised. 
“She will do, Charles, with a little coaching. And thank 
Heaven! her dreadful mother and all her kin live on 
the other side of the ocean!” 

Such was Lady Apohaqui’s comment as she drove 
with her son to Great Barrington Square the morning 
of their return from Falmouth. This comment from 
her lips gave the young peer great satisfaction, for he 
felt convinced that with his mother’s assistance there 
would be smooth sailing. The Dowager could invite the 
girl out, could chaperone her to parties and in a dozen 
ways create opportunities for him to see her alone. 
Finding his mother so favorably impressed, he asked 
what she thought of a trip to Richmond?” 

“Charles, is it wise to be so impatient?” 

“I hardly think I am impatient.” 

“I wonder what you call impatience! We have been 
barely separated from your Americans, yet already you 
plan other trips with them.” 

“If the thing is tO' be done, what is the use shilly¬ 
shallying? They will be going to the Continent soon. 
I want matters settled before they leave.” 

“You mean you want her engaged to you before she 
goes?” 


(164) 


LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 165 

“Yes. I have resolved to ask her to be my wife be¬ 
fore she leaves England.” 

After a silent study of her son’s face, Lady Apohaqui 
asked, “Are you really in love with the girl?” 

The young man laughed in a confused sort of way. 
“Well, what if I am? Isn’t it right for a fellow to be 
in love with the woman he wants to marry?” 

“Yes, if you are certain the woman will do,” admitted 
the mother cautiously, “but we must know more about 
this girl before we can be certain.” 

“The best way to be certain is to see more of her, 
and how can that be done unless we seek them? They 
won’t seek us.” 

By dint of such arguments Lord Apohaqui induced 
his mother to write an invitation for a boat trip to 
Richmond. The next day he went to the Metropole. 
Grace came down to the drawing-room with her hat 
on and putting on her gloves. 

“Mamma and Clara are asleep,” she said smilingly. 
“They will be sorry to miss you. I would ask you to 
stay, but I have some shopping to do that cannot be 
postponed.” 

“I have heard you say you detested shopping,” said 
the lord in a disappointed tone. 

“So I do> but shopping is sometimes a matter of busi¬ 
ness. Just look at this string of things that I have to 
buy!” exhibiting a sheet of paper whereon was written 
a long list of articles. 

“Are you going alone?” asked Lord Apohaqui with 
some anxiety. 

“Yes, mamma and Clara do not feel equal to the exer¬ 
tion.” 

“May I accompany you?” 

“You?” laughed Grace. “Do you not know what a 
task shopping is? The shops are so vast, there are so 
many counters, such piles and piles of goods, and so 
many clerks wanting to sell you something, it is perfectly 
dreadful. I would rather plow than shop!” 

“Plow!” exclaimed the young nobleman. 


166 LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 


“Yes. Plowing behind a gentle, sleepy old mule, 
under blue Alabama skies, the soft earth beneath your 
feet, is far healthier, far more agreeable than tramping 
through the crowded aisles of a big shop!” 

In spite of this forbidding picture, Lord Apohaqui 
declared that if Grace had no objection, he would take 
a lesson in shopping that very afternoon. 

“I haven’t the slightest objection,” laughed Grace. “If 
you have committed a sin and feel the need of severe 
penance, a shopping trip will be as good a penance as 
you can find.” 

“I am sure it will be a pleasant one,—with you,” was 
the prompt answer. “Are you not afraid to go alone?” 

“I might be afraid in Africa or Asia, but not in Eng¬ 
land.” 

“Even in England there are thousands of savages as 
dangerous as those of Africa or Asia.” 

“But they dare not manifest their dangerous proclivi¬ 
ties in broad daylight. I see plenty of women on the 
streets alone. They do not seem to be afraid.” 

“They are not in your walk of life, Miss Barton. 
Young English women of the higher class seldom go 
about without a chaperone.” 

“But if it is not dangerous for the lower class of 
women surely it is not for the higher.” 

“Perhaps not as to real physical danger, but if young 
girls of the higher class are not strictly guarded, disagree¬ 
able comments might be made.” 

“Oh, disagreeable comments. Is that the danger 
chaperones are intended to prevent?” 

“Precisely,” replied the lord, with a feeling of relief 
that at last he had been able to make the American girl 
understand why she should not run about London with¬ 
out her mother or some other older woman to lend re¬ 
spectability to her outing. 

“Lord Apohaqui,” said Grace, seriously, “if the aris¬ 
tocratic English girls like that sort of—of—espionage, 
of course they can submit to- be treated like children, 
led around by some old woman; but since there is no 


LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 167 

real danger I wonder at them! And how hard on the 
old woman! No elderly person can like running around 
with young girls. Girls are quite free with us and no 
one makes disagreeable comments. If they did-” 

“Well, what if they did?” 

“Why, the girl’s big brother or father or uncle would 
make them know better,” laughed Grace. “If she wishes, 
an American girl may travel all over the United States 
by herself: But here is a hansom. Please call it up.” 

What daughter of the aristocracy would thus ride in 
a hansom? Did not all London know that for a girl to 
ride in a cab with a man not her father or brother was 
to lay herself open to severe comment? Of this Grace 
was serenely unconscious, but Lord Apohaqui knew 
if people in his set saw him in a hansom with that ex¬ 
traordinarily pretty girl they might form the most un¬ 
pleasant ideas, and dare to jest in a way in which the 
future Lady Apohaqui must not be jested about. “If 
you don’t mind,” he said, “let us go in a bus. I don’t 
like hansoms.” 

“You don’t? I thought everybody liked them. That’s 
one English custom I think ought to be adopted. It’s 
so nice bowling along, the driver perched up behind 
you, nothing in front to obstruct your view. However, 
it is just as nice on top of the busses. From those lofty 
seats the streets and crowds of people moving about 
seem like a panorama.” 

“But my dear Miss Barton, English women never 
riiie on top of ’busses.” 

“Do they think it dangerous? The ’busses do look 
top-heavy. I’ve often wondered why they don’t topple 
over.” 

“It is not the physical danger that deters them.” 

“Disagreeable comment again?” laughingly queried 
Grace. 

“Well, yes. A lady is out of place among working¬ 
men. You always see workingmen and workingwomen 
on top of the ’busses.” 

“I am glad they have such pleasant places to ride on, 



1C8 LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 


but I am selfish enough to go up there myself, even if 
thereby one workingman is obliged to ride in the stuffy 
inside.” 

“I am horrified at such selfishness!” 

“I excuse myself on the ground that I shall not be 
long in London and must see all I can, whereas work¬ 
ingmen and workingwomen know London by heart.” 
With this Grace climbed to the top of the ’bus, seated 
herself and looked about delightedly. The young lord 
hardly believed she really meant to do it until the deed 
was done. Grace sat down by a ruddy-faced woman 
with a pipe in her mouth and a basket in her lap. Around 
her were coarse men and women, coarse but decent. 
Lord Apohaqui found a seat near her. The rough 
background, although objectionable to his sense of pro¬ 
priety, certainly seemed to set off the girl’s beauty and 
refinement. When they were comfortably seated Grace 
said: “Isn’t it lovely up here? I like it even when it 
rains. I put up rriy umbrella and defy the water. At 
first I was afraid I would be shaken off, but the driver 
said there wasn’t the slightest danger.” 

“I believe it would be safer inside,” replied the lord. 
“Were I your mentor I would not permit you to come 
on top.” 

“Why not?” 

“I would not wish you to—to be so much out of 
place. Had I a sister she would certainly not ride here.” 

“Do you mean it is not proper?” 

“Women of the higher classes do not do it. Being 
American, you are not expected to know these distinc¬ 
tions.” 

“Were I English and myself—just as I am now, I 
would not pay the slightest attention to such rules. If 
these women on top of the ’bus are respectable I see 
no objection to riding with them.” 

At these words his mother’s warning came to his 
mind,—“Self-willed—opinionated—too American ever to 
acquire English forms.” But Grace looked so lovely 
that her beauty almost erased the adverse words from 


LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 169 


his mind. When they got down from the ’bus, per¬ 
ceiving that they were not in the vicinity of the fashion¬ 
able shops where ladies usually went, Lord Apohaqui 
asked if she had not made a mistake? 

“Oh, no. I have been here before—not to shop but 
just to see the place. We heard of it in America. This 
is the great Co-operative store with half a million mem¬ 
bers. An Englishman in Talladega gave a lecture about 
Co-operative stores. He said you could buy anything 
here, from a needle to a haystack.” 

“Good heavens!” thought her companion, “are all 
her proclivities downward? To come to a shop estab¬ 
lished especially and solely for the laboring classes!” 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Barton,” he said hesitat¬ 
ingly, “but I don’t think this is the sort of shop you 
want, I really don’t.” 

“Why not?” asked the girl, preparing for another 
bout with his aristocratic notions. 

“Why—my impression is that only working people, 
the common classes, deal here. I rather fancy you would 
like Regent or Bond street better. No ladies shop here.” 

“Only working people patronize this place?” 

“I think so.” 

“In that case your working people must wear nice 
things, and costly things too. When I was here/ the 
other day I priced a lovely sealskin sacque and intend 
to get it to-day for mamma. I did not know that Eng¬ 
lish workingwomen wore sealskin sacques!” 

After procuring from the manager a ticket permitting 
her the shopping privileges for one day, Grace proceeded 
to make her purchases. First she selected the sealskin 
sacque for her mother; then she went to the bargain 
counters in front of which was quite a throng of plainly 
dressed women of the middle classes. 

“Lord Apohaqui,” said Grace, laughing, “if you value 
your peace of mind you had better take a walk whtfe 
I am purchasing these things. Even to look at the 
bargain counter crowd will give you nervous prostra¬ 
tion.” 


170 LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 


“Since I can’t talk to you or help you with my in¬ 
valuable advice, I shall accept your kind suggestion. 
When must I return for you?” 

“I think I shall be through in half an hour. You will 
find me here at this same counter.” 

At the appointed time Lord Apohaqui returned, but 
Miss Barton was not where she had promised to await 
him. He waited some minutes but the American girl 
did not appear; then he wandered around to other coun¬ 
ters. Up and down he went, returning every 
few minutes to the bargain counter. An hour 
spent in search convinced him that Grace had left 
the store. Probably she had finished her shop¬ 
ping sooner than she expected and had grown tired of 
waiting for him. A little nettled at such inconsiderate 
treatment, the Englishman abandoned the search and 
returned to the Metropole to see if she had safely re¬ 
turned. Mrs. Barton had seen nothing of her. “Where 
can she be?” asked Lord Apohaqui, uneasily. 

Mrs. Barton smiled placidly. “You don’t know Grace 
or you wouldn’t worry. Grace never gets lost or con¬ 
fused. She knows how to take care of herself better 
than any girl I ever saw.” 

“But where can she have gone?” persisted the lord. 
“When I left her she had no intention of visiting any 
other store. She expected to come straight back to the 
hotel. She said she would wait for me.” 

“I dare say,” replied Mrs. Barton, serenely, “it was 
very impolite not to wait when she said she would. I 
reckon she could not get all she wanted at the Co¬ 
operative place and so went off to another store. Or, 
may be—but really we can’t tell what Grace will do. 
She may have gone off with some starving person. She 
will turn up all right.” 

Mrs. Barton glanced down at her novel, still open in 
her hand, in a way that made Lord Apohaqui feel she 
wanted to resume her story. He left, anger in his heart 
at Mrs. Barton’s indifference. “She deserves to lose 


LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 171 


her daughter,” he thought. “Fool! Idiot! to let a girl 
like that roam alone about London.” 

While Mrs. Barton was serenely enjoying her novel, 
Grace was passing through a most disagreeable expe¬ 
rience. Not long after Lord Apohaqui went off for a turn 
in the fresh air, a heavy hand laid upon Grace’s shoulder 
caused her to look around. Was it possible that Lord 
Apohaqui had taken such a liberty? No, it was not the 
young lord who stood over her eyeing her sternly. It 
was a rather shabbily dressed man with hard features 
and steely eyes. Grace’s first thought was that she was 
mistaken for an acquaintance. 

“Come,” said the man, “you’re wanted.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The manager wants you.” 

It flashed across Grace that- the manager who' gave 
her the permit to make purchases at the Co-operative 
store wished to change it, perhaps revoke it. Rising to 
go, she looked for her parasol which she had placed by 
her side against the counter. The man understood her 
glance. 

“I ’ave it,” he said; “come on.” 

Grace followed in silence thinking of what Lord Apo¬ 
haqui had said as to ladies never shopping at the Co¬ 
operative store. “Certainly,” she thought, “if their floor¬ 
walkers are all as ill-mannered as this one I do not 
wonder that ladies never come here.” She offered to 
relieve the man of her parasol, but he held it firmly, a 
disagreeable grin coming over his face. “Lord Apo¬ 
haqui was right,” she thought; “these people are unac¬ 
customed to ladies.” 

Her guide led the way into a small office where sat 
a thin, wrinkled man at a desk, examining a lot of card¬ 
boards on which were pasted small pieces of different 
kinds of cloth. 

“Ahem!” coughed the hard-faced man by way of an¬ 
nouncing his entrance. The little dried-up specimen of 
humanity wheeled around in his chair and eyed Grace 


172 LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 

with a pair of dull, tired eyes which also seemed to be 
drying up. 

“What is it, Hawks?” he asked in a husky tone. 

“Ahem, sir,” with a side glance at Grace, “hanother 
shoplifter, sir.” 

Shoplifter! For a moment Grace was as stunned as 
if the words had been blows. The insult of the term 
overwhelmed her; all the blood in her body seemed to 
rush to her heart and filled it to the bursting point; she 
was absolutely speechless as she stared at those dread¬ 
ful men. Shoplifter! 

“Dear me!” said the little man in a tone of utter in¬ 
difference, “another?” 

“Yes, hanother, Mr. Dusty, see!” Hawks turned 
Grace’s parasol upside down, letting fall from its silken 
folds a lot of gloves, a bolt of ribbon and a piece of fine 
lace. “We’ve got it dead on this one. We can fix ’er, 
certain. This his ’er parasol.” 

“Dear me!” repeated Dusty wearily. 

“Caught in the very hact,” said Hawks with a grin 
of triumph and another side-glance at the almost faint¬ 
ing girl. “You can make han example hof ’er and 
frighten hoff the hothers—see?” 

“Dear me. Yes, of course,” assented Dusty, turning 
to his desk and his cardboards with the bits of cloth 
pasted on them. 

Grace realized the horror of her position and that she 
needed all her powers of mind to meet it. Shaking off 
the faintness that oppressed her she stood firmly on her 
feet, the color returned to her cheek; the pressure on her 
heart was relieved; she looked her accuser calmly in the 
face. 

“Do you mean to say I stole those things?” she de¬ 
manded with an air of great dignity. 

“Oh, come, now, don’t try that dodge. Hain’t this 
your parasol?” 

“Yes, it is my parasol, but I did not put those things 
in it.” 


LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 173 


“I s’pose not. I s’pose they just flew hinto it,” said 
Hawks, facetiously. 

“I am an American traveler. I can give you refer¬ 
ences. There is some mistake,” said Grace. 

Mr. Dusty wheeled around in his chair and looked 
at Grace again. “Dear me!” he muttered, apologetically, 
“we’ve lost so many articles lately—very sorry, very 
sorry, indeed, but—you’ll give her in charge, Hawks.” 

“What do you mean by giving me in charge?” asked 
Grace. 

“Well, I call that gall,” said Hawks, grinning with 
great enjoyment at the scene. “She’s a hold ’and, Mr. 
Dusty,—a hold, hexperienced ’and, you can see that 
with ’alf an eye.” 

“Dear me!” murmured Dusty. 

“Yes, that’s what she is, or my name hit haint ’Awks. 
I never see so much coolness in a young ’and. Mostly 
the new beginners busts hout a-crying when they’s 
caught, but she”—glancing at Grace admiringly—“she 
took hit as cool has a cucumber.” 

“Dear me! Too bad! too bad! A decent looking 
girl too.” And Mr. Dusty turned again to his desk 
and his cardboard samples. 

Hawks tapped Grace on the shoulder. “We must be 
goin’,” he said. 

“Where do you mean to take me?” asked the girl 
aghast. 

“Oh, you know, you’ve been through hit hall afore. 
You’ll feel hat ’ome at the Police Station, hand likely 
find a lot of friends there too.” 

“At least let me stay here and send for my mother 
and sister. They will satisfy you that I could not possi¬ 
bly steal. Sir,” turning to Dusty, “will you not permit 
me to sit here until my friends come to me?” 

“It haint reg’lar, Miss; we must be reg’lar,” said 
Hawks not waiting for Dusty to- reply. “You come 
’long with me, quick, hand don’t raise no row hand you 
can send for hanybody you mind to at the Police Station. 
Business is business, hand we must be reg’lar, Miss.” 


174 LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 


Feeling that it was useless to remonstrate further, 
Grace obeyed without another word. She felt keenly 
the position she was in but she persuaded herself that 
it could not last; that as soon as her mother, her sister, 
her friends came to her she would be released. Hawks 
informed her she could have a cab if she herself would 
pay for it. “Some of ’em prefers cabs,” he said, “hand 
some of 'em walks along has bold has you please.” 

By this Grace understood that “some of ’em” meant 
shoplifters and that she, Grace Barton, of Birmingham, 
Alabama, was ranked among the number. She made no 
reply except to tell the detective she wanted a cab. 
“’And hout the bobs, Miss, hand you’ll ride like a lady. 
We must be reg’lar, Miss : hand hits reg’lar to pay afore 
you ride. Two bob six is the fare.” 

Grace drew from the outside pocket of her jacket 
a small, cheap purse containing only a few silver coins 
and copper pennies. Hawks keenly watched her move¬ 
ments, and when he saw the cheap purse, he drew there¬ 
from confirmation strong as Holy Writ of the girl’s guilt. 
American travelers did not go about with such scanty 
supplies. She was a poverty stricken creature, yet had 
ordered costly goods; surely the facts were strong against 
her. The truth was Grace carried the bulk of her money 
in a secret pocket, and at that very moment had on her 
person nearly a thousand dollars out of which she had 
expected to pay for her purchases. But the detective 
had no suspicion of this and delivered her up at the 
Holloway Station with an inward chuckle of satisfaction 
at having nabbed a professional thief. As soon as she 
could get pen and paper Grace wrote the following note 
to her mother: 

“Holloway Police Station, Tuesday, 5 o’clock. 

Dear Mamma:—Do not be alarmed. I am safe, but 
detained here on account of a mistake. You and Clara 
come to me as soon as possible. Don’t be alarmed— 
the mistake will be fixed when you come. Give the 



“Drop it!” said Gassaway. 




























































































































































\ 


LORD APOHAQUI AND GRACE GO SHOPPING 175 


bearer a sovereign if he takes you this without a mo¬ 
ment’s delay. Lovingly, 

Grace. 

P. S. Do not be alarmed; I am perfectly well.” 

Detective Hawks agreed h> deliver this note. “If hit 
haint a trick,” he mused, “hif ’er people be really hand 
bodily a-boardin’ hat the Metropole they hain’t beggars. 
Beggars don’t board hat the Metropole. A sovereign! 
That’s fair. Beggars don’t pay no> sovereign for carry¬ 
ing notes.” 

A bright idea struck the detective. “She’s a klepto- 
many, Mack,” he said, slapping the police sergeant on 
the shoulder, “a kleptomany if hever I see one. ’Er 
people are hat the Metropole.” 

The sergeant smiled sarcastically. “I’ll bet my boots 
you don’t find no such people there. The girl’s up to 
tricks. She’s a smart one. Hawks, you’ll have a walk 
to the Metropole right enough, but you just let me know 
if you have any sovereign for your trouble.” 

“Maybe so, Mack, maybe so, but there hain’t no hend 
to the things a kleptomany’ll do when the fit’s on ’er. 
Give her the white room and treat ’er nice till I get back.” 
Then. Hawks started for the Metropole. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL. 

Notwithstanding her serene confidence in her elder 
daughter’s ability to take care of herself, when night 
came and Grace still failed to appear Mrs. Barton felt 
uneasy. 

“What can keep Grace out after dark? I don’t like 
it, Clara. Grace ought to be more punctual. She makes 
me nervous. I feel quite weak in my knees. Oh, I 
wish she would come!” 

“Pray, mamma, don’t worry. She will come soon. 
You will make yourself sick if you worry.” 

Prone to be advised by others, Mrs. Barton tried to 
believe, as Clara said, that Grace would come soon, but 
when another hour went by and Grace still failed to 
appear Mrs. Barton’s nueasiness increased. 

“Mamma,” said Clara, “you know how Grace is. May¬ 
be she met some workingwoman in distress and has 
gone to help her.” 

“If it were daylight,” sighed Mrs. Barton, “I wouldn’t 
feel so badly, but I don’t like Grace to be out in London 
at night. London is too big.” 

f “London is big, mamma, but what does that matter 
to Grace? She has a map and can find her way about 
as well as if she had been born here.” 

At this moment a servant entered and presented a 
card, not of unblemished whiteness, bearing the inscrip¬ 
tion,— 

“William Hawks, Private Detective.” 

“This can’t be for us,” said Clara, “returning the card 
to the servant. 

“He asked very perticler, ma’am, for the American 
lady named Mrs. Barton,” replied the bell-boy. “He 
said as he had a message from your daughter, ma’am.” 

( 176 ) 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


177 


“From my daughter?” gasped Mrs. Barton, turning 
white and clutching the back of a chair. 

“I will run down and see the man, mamma,” said 
Clara, vague fears of evil flashing through her mind. 
Mrs. Barton followed Clara down the steps into the 
small parlor where Mr. Hawks was standing, hat in 
hand, looking at the elegant furnishings about him. 

“Are you the h’American lady named Mrs. Barton?” 
asked Hawks. 

“My mother is Mrs. Barton,” replied Clara, hardly 
able to speak at sight of the detective. “What do you 
want? Where is my sister? What has happened to her? 
Oh, speak, quick!” 

“Your sister’s all right, ma’am,” said Hawks, grinning 
as pleasantly as his rusty, gridiron face permitted. “She 
ain’t ’urt noways, not hat all, ma’am. She’s in a little 
scrape, that’s hall.” 

With this Mr. Hawks fished from his pocket Grace’s 
note and handed it to Clara. By this time Mrs. Barton’s 
knees were so weak she could not stand and sank 
down on a chair. Clara read the note aloud. The first 
sensation that came tO' both women was a feeling of 
relief. Grace was safe, unhurt—what mattered the rest? 
How small a thing was detention in a police station 
compared to the vague fears they had conjured about 
her? “We shall go at once,” cried Clara. “Wait here, 
mamma, I will run and get your wrap and bonnet. Will 
you show us the way?” she asked Hawks. “Call a car¬ 
riage and take us there as fast as you can and you shall 
have an extra sovereign. Mamma, Mr. Brighton, the 
hotel proprietor will go with us.” 

Up to the moment of meeting her mother and sister, 
Grace maintained an outward show of calmness. She 
could not bear to have strangers witness her distress, 
but at sight of her loved ones—of those who would 
sympathize with her, she fell into her mother’s arms 
weeping and laughing in the same breath. “Oh, 
mamma!” she cried as soon as she could speak. “It 
is so dreadful to be accused of—of—stealing. And so 


178 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


—funny, so very funny, mamma, isn’t it? Your daughter, 
papa’s daughter, accused of stealing a few paltry 
things!” And she wept and laughed in her mother’s 
arms. 

“My darling Grace,” said Mrs. Barton, “they can’t 
really think you did such a thing! It’s a horrible mis¬ 
take. We’ll tell them who you are. Don’t cry, darling. 
I am so happy to find you well and whole; when you did 
not come I thought you had been run over in the crowded 
streets? This is nothing compared to being run over, 
Grace.” 

When the girl was able to speak calmly, her sister 
entreated her to tell how it had all happened. “Had you 
paid for the things you bought?” Clara asked. 

“No. They arrested me before I could pay for any¬ 
thing. My parasol leaned against the bargain counter. 
A crowd of women were pressing around me; all of a 
sudden I felt a hand on my shoulder and when I had 
followed the detective into' the private office he turned 
my parasol upside down and out fell a lot of things, 
gloves, lace and ribbons which they think I put in my 
parasol to steal.” 

Mr. Brighton of the Metropole Hotel, did his best 
to persuade the police sergeant that it was out of the 
question for one of the Metropole guests to pilfer small 
articles. He spoke of the great wealth of the Bartons, 
and declared it would be an outrage to keep the young 
lady locked up over night in jail. “I will go bail for 
Miss Barton in any amount,” concluded Mr. Brighton. 

“Very sorry, sir,” returned the sergeant, “but I have¬ 
n’t the power to- let the young lady out; it’s my business 
to take ’em in but not to let ’em out except in the reg’lar 
way, by order of the magistrate.” 

“Where is the magistrate?” asked Mr. Brighton. 
“There will be no court until morning?” 

“No, there won’t, sir,” replied the sergeant, laconically. 

“And Miss Barton will be kept locked up all night?” 

“That’s it, sir. She’s been committed reg’lar.” 

Mr. Brighton, reported the fruitless results of his inter- 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


179 


view with the sergeant, and was astonished at the quiet¬ 
ness with which the Bartons received the announcement. 

“We will stay with Grace,” said Mrs. Barton. “We 
won’t go back until she is released.” 

I don’t care now that I have you and mamma with 
me,” said Grace smiling, “but it was dreadful, too dread¬ 
ful to be here alone.” 

When Mr. Brighton was gone, cots were brought and 
Mrs. Barton and her daughters made themselves fairly 
comfortable. 

On the following morning while the Bartons were at 
breakfast in the Holloway Jail, Lord Apohaqui was 
breakfasting at the Victoria Club, being up two hours 
earlier than was his wont because of the contemplated 
trip to Richmond. While sipping his coffee he glanced 
at the “Times”. An item in the local column caught 
his eye—“An American Arrested.” He gave a second 
glance at the heading, then he read the item through, 
his face growing pale as he read. 

The item was as follows: 

AN AMERICAN GIRL ARRESTED. 

Yesterday a young American girl was caught in the act of pil¬ 
fering from the glove and lace counters of the London Co-opera¬ 
tive store. Her parasol was loaded with gloves, ribbons and lace. 
The arrest was so quietly made that few in the store were aware of 
what was occurring. The girl protested her innocence and de¬ 
clared she had no knowledge as to how the articles came into her 
parasol. She gave the name of Grace Barton, of America, and is 
stopping at the Hotel Metropole. She was lodged at the Hollo¬ 
way Police Station. 

Lord Apohaqui dashed off a note to his mother, telling 
her the Richmond trip was postponed, then he rushed 
down the stairs, two steps at a time, hailed a cab and 
drove post-haste for Holloway street, stopping en route 
to get Mr. Simon Griddles, a noted criminal lawyer 
with whom he was acquainted. 

At the police station, just as Lord Apohaqui and Mr. 
Griddles alighted from their cab, another cab dashed 


180 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


up and another man alighted; the other man was the 
showman Blower. Catching sight of Lord Apohaqui, 
Mr. Blower rushed up, seized him by the hand and ex¬ 
claimed, “Ah, my lord, so you have heard? I knew 
you would come—it’s an outrage, a damnable outrage! 
Enough to bring two countries to war!” 

“It is an outrage,” returned Lord Apohaqui, “an 
idiotic blunder of an idiotic policeman.” 

There had been a time, and that but a few weeks ago, 
when the fastidious nobleman would have coldly resented 
such effusive warmth on the part of the showman, but 
a common sympathy brought Lord Apohaqui and Mr. 
Blower together and the nobleman actually felt a degree 
of pleasure at the other’s indignation. 

The police court was filled with the usual lot of idlers 
who crowded every available space without the railing. 
Lord Apohaqui handed his card to one of the policemen 
on duty and at sight of the title engraved on the piece 
of pasteboard the officer opened the gate so that his 
lordship and companions might enter within the area 
reserved for counsel. As he emerged through the dense 
crowd into the open area Lord Apohaqui’s brow con¬ 
tracted and his heart suffered a spasm of pain. He had 
secretly flattered himself that his zeal in hastening to 
Miss Barton’s assistance would in a measure win him her 
regard. He had rushed thither without a moment’s 
delay, and it was bitterly provoking, to find after all that 
he was not the first of her friends to reach her; there 
by her side sat Rhett Calhoun .and Mr. Gassaway, as 
well as her mother and sister. “Miss Barton,” said the 
lord as soon as he reached the bench, scarcely waiting 
to exchange greetings, “I have brought Mr. Griddles to 
look after your case. He is the best lawyer in London 
for cases of this sort, and you know even the innocent 
must have a lawyer.” 

“I am the victim of a cruel mistake,” replied Grace, 
“but how can I prove it? I can testify to the truth, but 
even were I guilty people would expect me to assert 
innocence.” 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


181 


“Mr. Griddles is famous for untangling skeins, Miss 
Barton. Explain the whole case to him.” 

Mr. Griddles after rising in court and informing the 
magistrate that he represented Miss Barton, was ac¬ 
corded permission to retire with his client to a private 
room for consultation. Lord Apohaqui, Mrs. Barton 
and Clara accompanied them, and Rhett watched the 
party with a heavy heart as they disappeared in a small 
room adjoining the court. 

There were a number of minor cases on the docket 
which had precedence of the charge against Miss Barton, 
but all these, including the cases of the Trafalgar Square 
rioters, were made to give way to the hearing of the 
charge against the American girl. 

The first statement was made by Hawks, the Co-opera¬ 
tive store’s private detective. He stated, in very moder¬ 
ate language, that he had arrested the prisoner because 
in her parasol were found articles belonging to the store 
—articles not usually carried in parasols and which evi¬ 
dently had been surreptitiously placed there by the 
prisoner. 

“Mr. Hawks,” said Mr. Marley, the attorney employed 
by the Co-operative store to prosecute, “please tell his 
worship how you happened to discover that these articles 
were in the prisoner’s parasol.” 

“One of the clerks told me as a piece of lace ’ad dis¬ 
appeared. I went quick hup and down the aisles, keep¬ 
ing a sharp heye on hall the ladies in that part of the 
store. Presently I see the parasol leanin’ agin the variety 
counter a hend of a ribbon ’anging hout plain to be seen, 
so I grabs the parasol and the lady, and takes ’em to 
Mr. Dusty’s office and turns the parasol hinside hout 
afore ’er face.” 

“State what the parasol contained.” 

“Four pair of gloves, a roll of ribbon and a piece of 
lace.” 

“Take the witness,” said Mr. Marley to Mr. Griddles. 

Mr. Griddles had a way of fixing his eye on a witness 
which made the victim wriggle in his seat and feel that 


182 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


the lawyer had discovered some dark secret of his life 
which he meant to drag out into the light of day. At 
the beginning of his examinations, Mr. Griddles was 
invariably soft and pleasant so as to lull the witness 
into the belief that he was as commonplace as his shabby 
coat and common appearance indicated. But when 
Mr. Griddles showed his claws, which he was swift to 
do the moment there was no further point to be gained 
by softness, the average witness was apt to feel that he 
was a very unpleasant man indeed. 

“Did I understand you to say, Mr. Hawks,” said Mr. 
Griddles, softly, “that the prisoner was taken in the very 
act of purloining the goods?” 

“Yes, sir,” glibly responded the detective. The next 
instant he turned red in the face, fearing that he might 
have fallen into a trap; he had seen many witnesses fall 
into Mr. Griddles’ traps. 

“You saw the accused at the very moment she took 
the articles and dropped them into her parasol?” 

“I—I—didn’t say that,” stammered the witness, “not 
exactly that.”. 

“Ah, not exactly that? Well, will you kindly state 
what you did say?” 

“I said I saw the prisoner at the variety counter; her 
parasol by her side with a ribbon hend ’anging bout; 
then I hafrested ’er and took ’er to the manager’s private 
office.” 

“But you did not see her in the very act of putting 
the things in the parasol?” 

“No, .sir, I did not.” 

“You had been warned to look out for a shoplifter?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And you had an eye on this lady, the prisoner here?” 

“Yes, sir, I ’ad my heye hon ’er.” 

“Yet you did not see her put anything into her 
parasol?” 

Hawks’ face again turned red. “They does this sort 
of thing very quick-like. Hit hain’t hoften you see the 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


183 


goods lifted. She was fingerin’ laces and hactin’ suspi¬ 
cious-like.” 

‘•Ah, acting suspiciously? In what way, Mr. Hawks? 
Describe how Miss Barton was acting suspiciously.” 

“Why, sir, while fingerin’ the laces she was actin’ 
suspicious-like—nervous, lookin’ round as hif to see hif 
she was watched.” 

“Miss Barton was looking around, was she? For a 
friend, as we can show, and on that frivolous ground 
you arrested her?” 

“It wasn’t on that ground hat hall, sir,” said the detec¬ 
tive sullenly. “I harrested ’er because ’er parasol was 
filled with things as didn’t belong to ’er.” 

“But you admit, Mr. Hawks, that you did not see 
Miss Barton take those things; you say you think she 
took them, and when asked to> state your reason you 
reply that she was looking around.” 

“I thought she was lookin’ ’round to see if she was 
watched,” said the badgered witness. “That was honly 
one reason I suspected ’er.” 

“Oh, that was only one of your reasons? Are the 
rest of your reasons as frivolous as this one, Mr. Hawks? 
Things have come to a pretty pass when a lady expecting 
a friend cannot look around to see if that friend has 
come without being accused of stealing.” 

Then, having done all he could to confuse the detec¬ 
tive and indeed having made it in some sort appear that 
Grace’s arrest was due merely to her looking around 
to see if Lord Apohaqui had arrived, Mr. Griddles told 
the witness to stand aside, and Dusty, the dried-up little 
manager of the Co-operative store, took the stand. He 
described what had taken place in his private office. He 
made no claim to having seen Grace place the articles 
in her parasol; consequently Mr. Griddles waved his 
hand and nodded negatively when the magistrate in¬ 
quired if he wished to question the witness. Then Grace 
took the stand and made her statement. She bore her¬ 
self with such quiet dignity and looked so youthful and 
lovely, that every eye was fastened upon her with interest 


184 


GRACE BARTON'S TRIAL 


and admiration. She told her story plainly—straight¬ 
forwardly. She had gone to the Co-operative store with 
Lord Apohaqui; his lordship grew tired of waiting and 
went out to return in half an hour. “There was a crowd 
about the counters,” continued Grace. “I leaned my 
parasol against the counter and a few minutes afterwards 
that man said I was wanted by the manager. I had 
obtained a ticket allowing me to purchase at the store 
and thought the manager wished to see me about the 
permit. In the manager’s office they turned over my 
parasol and those things dropped out of it. I have no 
idea how they came there. I think,” and there was a 
suggestion of tears in her voice, “I think that anybody 
who knew me would—know—” here there was a pause 
to choke back the pushing tears; then in a perfectly 
steady voice she finished, “would know that I am in¬ 
capable of stealing.” 

The earnestness of this speech and the extreme beauty 
of the speaker produced an impression which Mr. Marley 
attempted to remove by bringing the case back to the 
one really vital question as to how the stolen goods got 
into the prisoner’s parasol if the prisoner herself had 
not placed them there. It was not for him to say that 
the accused did steal, or could steal; it was his duty to 
point out the fact that the articles had been stolen, that 
they had been found in the prisoner’s parasol, and that 
no explanation was offered as to how they had gotten 
there. After paying a compliment to Grace’s personal 
beauty and declaring that he did her no such wrong as 
to suppose she was a thief, Mr. Marley proceeded to 
show that he did think she had placed the stolen articles 
in her parasol. Exhibiting the pearl-handled parasol, 
he asked Grace if it was hers. 

“Yes, I bought it in New York.” 

“In New York?” repeated Mr. Marley, gently. “Did 
you ever have such an—an—accident happen to it be¬ 
fore?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Grace, growing a shade 
paler. 


GRACE BARTON'S TRIAL 


185 


“I mean,” said the lawyer very softly and gently, “did 
you ever in New York or elsewhere find your parasol 
filled with such articles as were found there yesterday?” 

“Never!” replied Grace with dignity. She retained 
her presence of mind and, except by her increased pale¬ 
ness, gave no sign that she understood the insult implied 
by the lawyer’s question. Mr. Marley asked more ques¬ 
tions, but nothing new was elicited. Grace admitted that 
the parasol was hers, that it was filled with the goods 
which Mr. Marley held before her, but she insisted that 
she had not placed them there and did not know who 
had. “Could they have fallen in from the counter?” 
queried Mr. Marley, politely. “Could they have been 
accidentally brushed off the counter into your parasol?” 

Mr. Marley expected Grace to jump at this plausible 
theory;.then he meant to overwhelm her by pointing 
out that the articles found in the parasol were from 
different counters, hence could not have been accidentally 
brushed into the parasol. But Grace’s truth and clear 
judgment saved her from the trap. “If you wish my 
opinion on that subject, I must say that I do not think 
the things fell by accident into my parasol. It would 
be hardly possible for two or three such accidents to 
occur at the different counters.” 

“You think, then, they were all dropped in together, 
at one time?” 

“It must have been that way. I was not at the .glove 
counter at all. I only purchased a sacque and things 
at the variety counter.” 

“Ah, you purchased things in the fur department, did 
you, Miss Barton?” 

“Yes.” 

“May I ask,” Mr. Marley had been told about the 
slender purse—“if you paid for the sealskin sacque?” 

“No, I was arrested before I paid for anything.” 

“Before you paid for anything?” Mr. Marley’s tone 
indicated plainly that in his opinion the prisoner never 
intended to pay for the articles; she had evidently se¬ 
lected them for the purpose of duping and deceiving 


186 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


the clerks. “That will do, Miss Barton,” concluded the 
lawyer. Then Lord Apohaqui took the stand. He knew 
the Bartons, they were wealthy and had no motive for 
petty theft; in his judgment it was impossible that Miss 
Barton could have placed the goods in her parasol. Mr. 
Marley asked how long he had known the prisoner’s 
family. “About fc six weeks,” replied the lord. 

“You did not know them in America?” 

“No; that is, not exactly. But I heard of them in 
New York and I met them" on the steamer returning to 
Liverpool.” 

“And they told you they were wealthy?” 

“Certainly not,” replied Lord Apohaqui, irritated at 
the question. 

“How then, my lord, did you learn of their great 
wealth?” 

“I heard of it,” replied Lord Apohaqui, his face flush¬ 
ing red. 

“How was it that their wealth was discussed? Was 
there any question as to their solvency?” 

“None whatever. They are absolutely spotless; they 
have the highest standing in America. That detective 
has simply made an idiotic blunder!” 

Grace shot the witness one radiant glance that went 
far toward repaying him for what he was undergoing. 
To Lord Apohaqui a stuffy police court, filled with vul¬ 
gar people, was bad enough in itself; but to be obliged 
not only to be in such a place, but actually to pose in 
a conspicuous role in the court and publicly tell of the 
inquiries he had made in New York regarding the 
Bartons was little short of torture. It was a cruel alter¬ 
native; if he told the magistrate of his New York detec¬ 
tive’s investigations what would the Bartons think? On 
the other hand, if he did not tell of these matters would 
the magistrate attach weight to his testimony regarding 
the Bartons’ wealth and high social standing? When 
Mr. Marley asked how he, a mere traveling acquaintance, 
could speak so positively, Lord Apohaqui determined to 
save Grace at whatever hazard to himself, and told the 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


187 


court that he knew from mutual friends that the Bartons 
were people of great wealth and high social standing. 

After Mr. Brighton had testified that Grace was stop¬ 
ping with her mother and sister at the Metropole and that 
the family appeared to have ample funds at their disposal, 
Mr. Marley addressed a few words to the magistrate. 
He had no personal feeling against the prisoner; he 
was there merely in the interest of justice. There had 
been too many of these shoplifting cases; it was necessary 
to serve warning on light-fingered persons, young or 
old, high or low, rich or poor, that their crimes would 
be punished. Who really knew anything of the character 
or antecedents of the accused? It had been shown that 
her family was stopping at an expensive hotel, but how 
often does it happen that designing rogues assume the 
appearance of wealth? Lord Apohaqui, than whom 
there was no more credible witness in England, testified 
in the prisoner’s behalf, but what did his lordship really 
know of the matter? He was only a traveling acquaint¬ 
ance. Admit, however, that all his lordship said was 
correct, did that affect the issue? Did that explain how 
the accused’s parasol was filled with stolen goods? Did 
that relieve the prisoner from the necessity of offering 
some reasonable explanation of this very remarkable 
occurrence? Mr. Marley thought not, and if no ex¬ 
planation were forthcoming was it unreasonable to pre¬ 
sume that the accused herself had stolen the goods? 
The question of her alleged wealth was immaterial. Mr. 
Marley was aware that his learned brother, Mr. Griddles, 
usually had much to say of kleptomania in cases of this 
kind; but the dignity and the justice of English law 
does not, and should not, discriminate between the felo¬ 
nious abstraction of goods by the rich and a similar trans¬ 
gression by the poor. If there was any comfort, any 
solace to Mr. Griddles or his client in the term klepto¬ 
mania they were welcome to such comfort and solace; 
but the punishment for kleptomania was the same as 
for common thieving. At this point Grace arose arid 
to the astonishment of the magistrate and lawyers, said: 


188 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


“Will you let me say one word?” 

Before anybody had time either to assent or dissent 
she continued: 

“I want it understood, that I make no plea of being 
affected with kleptomania. I am not insane—insanity 
must not be offered in excuse. I did not take the things. 
That is all the plea I make. I did not take them. It 
is as utterly impossible for me to steal as it is for your 
own Queen to steal.” 

Then she sat down, trembling all over. Mr. Marley 
raised his hand deprecatingly. “Of course,” he said, 
“every one understands the prisoner’s plea; it is the usual 
one of ‘Not Guilty’. Were that sufficient no guilty 
person would ever be punished. I ask your worship to 
commit the prisoner to jail to stand trial.” 

Mr. Gassaway had listened with ill-repressed anger to 
Mr. Marley’s harangue, and now that he talked of send¬ 
ing Grace to jail the reporter could no longer contain 
himself. Forgetting that he was confronting the majesty 
of the law, forgetting that he himself was a prisoner, 
Mr. Gassaway sprang to his feet and shook his fist at 
the astonished Mr. Marley. “You are no gentleman, 
sir!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “You don’t 
know a lady when you see one! And, by the Eternal, 
if you don’t stop insulting this Southern girl I’ll break 
every bone in your body!” Mr. Gassaway looked eager 
and fully able to execute his awful threat, but circum¬ 
stances prevented the attempt. 

“Seize that man,” said the magistrate sternly. An 
officer advanced to obey the command. Supposing that 
respect for the law would overawe the offender, the officer 
made no special effort in the line of self-defense; result: 
he got promptly knocked down the moment he came 
within the range of Mr. Gassaway’s fist. Instantly the 
court-room was in an uproar. Of course the doughty 
reporter was overpowered, but though seized by three 
brawny officers he breathed threats and defiance. No 
matter what the odds, a Southern woman should not 
be insulted in his presence. “Insult to woman is some- 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


189 


thing no Gassaway can stand and, by the Almighty! if 
this magistrate had a soul as big as a peanut he wouldn’t 
sit there on that bench listening to a brutal lawyer’s 
assault on a defenseless woman.” 

These chivalrous sentiments were shouted out by the 
fiery reporter as the three brawny officers dragged him 
from the court-room. When he was under lock and 
key the proceedings of the court were resumed. The 
magistrate handed down his opinion to the effect that 
the evidence was of such a nature as to oblige him to 
remand the prisoner to jail there to await trial at the 
next term of court. Lawyer Griddles, who all along 
expected this result, was about to make the customary 
motion for bail, when again the proceedings of the court 
were disturbed, this time by a young woman with a thin, 
haggard face who hitherto had been unnoticed among 
the crowd of spectators. Holding out her hands with 
an appealing gesture toward the magistrate, she begged 
to be sworn as a witness before the case was finally 
decided. 

“What does that person say?” asked the magistrate 
angrily, then looking over his spectacles at the officer 
on duty in the court, he added—“It seems singularly 
difficult to preserve order in court to-day.” 

The officer, smarting under this rebuke, hurried to the 
young woman and gruffly ordered her to leave the 
court-room. “No!” she almost screamed, shaking off 
the officer’s hand, “I cannot bear it. I want to tell the 
truth. That girl never stole. You may lock me up! 
You may put me in prison! I cannot bear to see her 
punished! I took the things! I put them in her parasol. 
I am the one! Let her go! I did it! I did it!” 

Her voice was raised to a hysterical shriek; every 
eye was turned to her. She was a tall, extremely thin 
young woman, clad in a black gown much the worse 
for wear, yet there was something about her which 
indicated that she did not belong to the illiterate classes. 
Mr. Griddles was the first to comprehend the import 
of this woman’s words. “It may be irregular, your 


190 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


worship/’ he said, “but this whole case has been charac¬ 
terized by irregularities. The interests of justice, if not 
the rules of law, require that this young person be sworn 
and allowed to testify.” 

The magistrate demurred to this; the case was closed. 
The place for the introduction of new testimony was at 
the trial at the next term of court. It was contrary to 
the rules and precedents to re-open a case and admit 
new testimony. 

But Mr. Griddles persisted, and as Mr. Marley inter¬ 
posed no objection the magistrate at length consented 
to do “this very irregular thing.” The testimony of 
the young woman, Helen Beck by name, put a totally 
different aspect on the case. Her father, a curate in 
one of the poorest quarters of London with a salary 
of £70 a year, had died ten months before, leaving his 
two daughters to earn their bread by sewing. Her elder 
sister had fallen ill with a slow fever, and was now at 
the point of death, dying for lack of food and medicine. 
This hard necessity had driven the younger one to steal. 
She had gone to the Co-operative store to seek work; 
none was given her, and as she was making her way 
back to the street, filled with despair, the sight of all the 
wealth around her and the recollection of her sick sister’s 
wretched condition tempted her to take a few things 
which she intended to pawn for food and medicine. She 
had just succeeded in taking something from the variety 
counter when she saw the clerks whispering to a man 
whom she suspected was a detective. Alarmed and 
agitated, she slipped the stolen goods into a parasol 
that leaned by her side against the counter. At the 
moment it did not occur to her that she would bring 
trouble to an innocent woman. She walked hurriedly 
to the door; there she gave one glance back and saw 
the detective walking off with the owner of the parasol. 
All night her conscience tortured her; she examined the 
papers and found when and where the trial was to be; 
had the prisoner escaped she would not have spoken, 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


191 


but not to save even her sister’s life could she bear to 
have an innocent person sent to jail for her crime. 

This story the young woman poured out in the most 
excited manner; her words and looks inspired belief in 
her veracity. 

The magistrate listened attentively, then summoned 
Mr. Marley to his side. As the result of their con¬ 
sultation Mr. Griddles was told the court felt convinced 
that Miss Barton had been erroneously accused; she 
therefore stood released without further form or cere¬ 
mony. Mr. Griddles bowed politely to the magistrate 
and congratulated Grace. '‘You have had a narrow 
escape,” he said. “Appearances were certainly against 
you. I did not expect to get you off without a term 
at Newgate.” 

“Oh!” replied the girl, shuddering, “how awful to 
condemn the innocent! The law is so strong it ought 
to be merciful. I can never thank you enough for your 
efforts in my behalf.” 

“Don’t thank me,” returned the lawyer, drily. “There’s 
your deliverer,” with a glance at Helen Beck. “But 
for her courage in confessing you would have been 
remanded to Newgate.” 

“I realize how much I owe her,” said Grace. “At 
bottom she must be a good woman with a good heart. 
Don’t you think those men who tried to send me to 
jail ought to be willing to* do me a favor?’ k 

“Indeed they ought. What favor will you ask of 
them?” 

“Not to prosecute that poor girl. Speak to them, 
Mr. Griddles, and you too, Lord Apohaqui. You have 
influence. Beg them not to prosecute her.” Grace 
slipped a ten pound note into Mr. Griddles’ hand and 
asked him in a whisper to give it to the poor curate’s 
daughter. 

This was rather more than the lawyer expected. True, 
the poor girl had saved Grace by her confession, but 
Mr. Griddles remembered that but for that same girl 
Miss Barton would never have been in jeopardy. How- 


192 


GRACE BARTON’S TRIAL 


ever, he undertook Grace’s commission and succeeded 
in inducing Mr. Dusty, on the part of the Co-operative 
store, to drop the prosecution. 

Mr. Marley formally announced that his client had 
no charge to make; whereupon the magistrate nodded 
at the policeman, who, in his turn, nodded at the young 
woman. 

The unfortunate young vicar’s daughter was to go free. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

LADY APOHAQUI DISAPPROVES OF THE BARTONS. 

Where the defendent is a beautiful girl with a lord 
as her witness and the celebrated Mr. Griddles as her 
lawyer, the ordinary run of police magistrate’s cases are 
dwarfed into insignificance. From the moment Grace 
was brought into court the other prisoners were for¬ 
gotten except, of course, by the officers whose duty it 
was to watch over them. Thus Calhoun and Gassaway, 
although not overlooked, were yet not known to their 
friends to be prisoners. If Rhett mentioned the fact 
it escaped Grace’s recollection; her mother and sister, 
Lord Apohaqui, Mr. Griddles and Blower were all there 
because she was there; naturally she attributed the pres¬ 
ence of her other friends to the same cause. But when 
she rose tO' leave and asked Rhett if he was not com¬ 
ing, she learned at last that some of her friends were 
in the same boat that she had just been in. 

“How selfish of me to think only of myself,” she said. 
“I quite forgot about poor Mr. Gassaway. They have 
locked him up! They are very swift to lock up people 
in this city. Will you also be locked up, Rhett?” 

“I have already been locked up,” he said with a smile, 
“but as I have transgressed no> law I hope to be free 
as soon as my case is called.” Then he related what had 
happened at Trafalgar Square. “Humph!” grunted Mr. 
Griddles, “if you put your case correctly you’ll have no 
trouble with the magistrate.” 

“And what of Mr. Gassaway?” asked Grace. 

“Who is Gassaway?” queried the lawyer. 

“He is the man who knocked down the policeman. 
His family and ours were friends before the war. I do 
hope he won’t be hardly dealt with.” 

The lawyer looked grave. “The laws of England al- 

( 193 ) 


194 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


low all men to defend themselves; on establishing 1 the 
facts about the Trafalgar Square affair you will be liber¬ 
ated; but the laws of England allow no man to resist 
an officer; therefore, on that score, I fear it will go hard 
with your friend Gassaway.” 

The event proved the correctness of this opinion. It 
did not take ten minutes to satisfy the magistrate that 
neither Rhett nor Gassaway were rioters; and the former 
was immediately released, but the unlucky reporter was 
made to suffer for his well meant but injudicious chiv¬ 
alry. At first the magistrate sentenced him to six months 
imprisonment, but against this Mr. Griddles protested, 
reminding the Court that the Reporter was an American, 
unacquainted with English forms; that he had been 
greatly excited over the impending peril of the young 
lady of whose innocence he was convinced; that his im¬ 
prudent action had been the result of his too impetuous 
zeal in defending distressed beauty, not meant as dis¬ 
respect for the honor of the magistrate or the peace 
and dignity of England. By dint of such arguments 
the magistrate at length reduced the sentence to £10, 
or ten days in Newgate. Grace, knowing Gassaway’s 
impecunious condition, wished to pay the fine. “You 
know, Mr. Gassaway, this is my debt. It was incurred 
in my behalf and it is my duty to pay it.” 

“I can’t see that, Miss Grace,” said the reporter with 
a jolly grin, “I can’t see it at all. I couldn’t think of 
letting you pay the fine.” 

“But it was for me you had the row in Court.” 

“Only in a way, Miss Grace. It would be nearer the 
mark to say it was in the cause of the fair sex in general 
that I lifted my voice and dashed out my fist. The 
Gassaways cannot stand still and see a woman insulted. 
The blood runs too hot in our veins for that. But even 
were the trouble wholly and solely in your behalf, I 
couldn’t let you pay that fine.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I want to see this matter to the end. If 
I wanted to I could pay my fine in a minute. I’ve got 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


195 


more than £10 sewed up in my shirt. But, I’d rather 
pay £10 not to pay it. It isn’t every fellow who gets 
ten days in Newgate! Zounds! It’s a bonanza, a mine 
of pointers for my G. A. N.” 

Argument had no effect upon Mr. Gassaway. It was 
not every American to whom Her Majesty furnished 
free board and he, Gassaway, would rather perish than 
decline so signal a mark of hospitality. As he marched 
off to Newgate the author of the future G. A. N. looked 
as pleased as if he were on his way to the Queen’s 
castle at Windsor. 

Mrs. Barton invited Rhett to dinner at the Metropole 
and when it was seen that the carriage ordered by Lord 
Apohaqui did not have enough room for the whole party, 
Grace insisted on accompanying Rhett in a hansom. 
“You know, mamma, Rhett has been in jail too, and we 
want to compare notes. You and Clara and Lord Apo¬ 
haqui go in the carriage, we shall come right on in the 
hansom.” 

As Rhett and Grace started off in the hansom their 
conversation turned upon the poverty that was terrible 
enough to lead an educated girl, the daughter of a clergy¬ 
man, to steal that she might buy food and medicine for 
a dying sister. 

“Rhett,” said Grace thoughtfully, “I have half a mind 
to take lodgings in this part of London and see how 
the poor live. What a sham it is to say you have seen 
London when you only visit the wealthy and fashionable 
districts. This is the real, the awful London one ought 
to see.” 

Since their escape from the court-room, Rhett Cal¬ 
houn had been sunk in sad, not to say gloomy, thoughts 
in which the good-looking English lord played a very 
prominent and disagreeable part. Rhett’s reply showed 
the trend of his musings. “I fear,” he said, “your new 
and noble friends would not approve of anything so 
eccentric.” 

“Are you trying to be satirical, Rhett?” asked Grace. 


196 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


“Not at all. I merely warn you how English aris¬ 
tocrats would view so unusual a move.” 

“We did not come to England tO' imitate the aristoc¬ 
racy, or to regulate our movements to suit their views, 
consequently we need not consult them as to what we 
do.” 

“Oh, of course not, still you may have a reasonable 
desire to please the noble classes.” 

“What is the matter with you, Rhett? Something 
seems to trouble you. Have you had bad news from 
home?” 

“No. All at home are well, thank you.” 

“Then what is the matter? You are not the same 
Rhett who came over with us on the Etruria.” 

“Yes, just the same, except a little older. Age brings 
gravity, you know.” 

“Nonsense! A few weeks couldn’t make you as 
solemn and serious as a man of fifty.” 

“Students of human nature say men may grow old in 
a single night,” returned Rhett, gloomily. 

“You must have been reading Byron. He makes one 
of his miserable but adorable characters feel himself to 
be a thousand years old. I know what is the matter 
with vou.” 

“What?” 

“You are disappointed.” 

“How so?” 

“You wanted me to get ten years in prison. I ob¬ 
served you. As soon as I was set free your face grew 
as black as a thunder-cloud. I did not think you were 
so malicious. That noble lord—you may sneer at nobil¬ 
ity as much as you like, but, all the same, he was de¬ 
lighted when I was let off. I shall always like him for 
his sympathy in my troubles.” 

“Confound his sympathy! You did not need it. You 
had your mother’s afid sister’s and Gassaway’s.” 

“But not yours? Well, that is the unkindest cut of 
all.” After a moment’s silence, during which Grace was 
thinking of the poor curate’s daughter, she said. 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


197 


“Rhett, it would not do for me to live in England/’ 

“Why not?”—his heart gave a glad bound. 

“If T lived in London I would become a Nihilist, an 
Anarchist, a Fenian—or something of that sort; I would 
take to throwing bombs under the Parliament House, 
or the throne, or something, that would blow things up, 
or blow them down, and divide shelter, food and cloth¬ 
ing a little more equally. It is terrible to see such suffer¬ 
ing; it makes us who have everything we need feel so 
selfish, so mean. The old Queen must be very unhappy, 
knowing so many of her people are hungry while she 
feasts every day of her life.” 

A dense fog had settled down on London and the 
window of the hansom became opaque. Grace reached 
her hand out toward the window. Rhett fancied she 
wanted to wipe off the moisture in order to look out 
and was about to offer his handkerchief for the purpose 
when to his surprise she traced some letters with the 

tip of her forefinger. The letters formed a name- 

A-P-O-H-A-Q-U-I. 

“Is it not an odd name?” she said, leaning back in 
her seat and eyeing it with a smile. 

“You must be very fond of it to write it on all the 
glass windows in London,” returned the young man 
rather curtly. 

“All the glass windows in London?” exclaimed the 
girl, with a happy laugh. “What a romancer you are, 
Rhett. I was thinking what an odd name it is. The 
idea of a man going about with such an odd name be¬ 
cause one of his ancestors killed some poor Apohaqui 
Indians in Canada two hundred years ago! I don’t 
suppose Lord Apohaqui would kill a mouse, much less 
an Indian, he is so tender-hearted.” 

“I have never observed evidence of tenderness of heart 
in Lord Apohaqui,” replied Rhett, sarcastically. “I dare 
say, however, his grand title sets a sort of halo around 
his head.” 

“There wasn’t any halo around Lord Bunger’s head, 


198 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


or rather Mr. Bunger when he was posing as a Lord. 
I thought him perfectly horrid.” 

This reply of Grace made the matter all the worse 
for poor Rhett. He could not conceal from himself that 
it was not the Englishman’s title which had won Grace’s 
respect; no one knew better than the young American 
that the young lord had personal and mental qualities 
well calculated to please both men and women. This 
fact acted as an irritant to Rhett’s feelings and he with¬ 
drew into himself and became morose. Was Miss Barton 
unsuspicious of the cause of her friend’s changing 
moods? Or was it. that wicked instinct of coquetry, so 
natural to the female heart, which made her mention 
so often and so favorably the name of a man she felt 
he disliked? 

“I can’t see why you disapprove of Lord Apohaqui. 
I am sure he seems very nice, considering he is a lord,” 
she finally said. 

“I don’t like lords, I don’t like the institution of aris¬ 
tocracy. I detest the whole system! The idea of a few 
men being hereditary law makers, living in luxury on the 
labor of others—but there! I have done. A fellow has 
no business to come to Europe and find fault with all 
he sees. No doubt they do as well as they can over 
here, only don’t ask me to love your lords and aris¬ 
tocrats.” 

That night, as Rhett sat in his room in Montague 
Place thinking over the day’s events his heart sank 
within him. True, Grace had chosen to accompany 
him from the Holloway Station, but was not that out 
of mere sympathy for his lonely condition? fctad she 
not even while alone with him in the hansom, turned 
her thoughts to Lord Apohaqui and written his name 
on the glass pane? Then too, at dinner, Rhett fancied 
the English nobleman was accorded unusual deference. 
They had been very kind and very polite to their old 
Alabama friend but the treatment" shown to him had 
not been the treatment shown Lord Apohaqui. “People 
will be blinded by the glitter of a title,” thought Rhett, 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


199 


bitterly. Then he resolved to leave England at once. 
But he did not leave until he had written and posted 
the following letter: 

Montague Place, Wednesday Night. 

“Dear Miss Barton:—When I said good-night a few 
hours ago I should also have said good-bye, for I am on 
the point of leaving England. Why did I not tell you? 
Because I had not the heart to say good-bye to such dear 
friends as you and your mother and sister. I have al¬ 
ready given more time to England than I intended. 
After a short run on the Continent I shall have to start 
for home. As you know, my trip was planned to cover 
less than two months: going about with you and your 
sister is such sweet pleasure that, if I do not tear my¬ 
self away with a sudden wrench, I might hang on indefi¬ 
nitely and give myself no time for the Continent, which, 
of course, would never do, you know, all good Ameri¬ 
cans must go at least once to Paris. 

I trust, dear Miss Barton, you will have no more 
disagreeable adventures like that at the Police Station, 
but if any mischief does occur, may you be fortunate 
enough to secure again so influential a champion as 
Lord Apohaqui. I may have seemed ill-natured about 
him, but I assure you I do think him a gentleman as 
well as a nobleman. Remember me kindly to your 
mother and sister. 

Your friend and schoolmate, 

RHETT CALHOUN.” 

Grace read this twice to herself. Then she read it 
aloud. “Who would expect such cranky conduct from 
Rhett Calhoun?” cried Clara. “He is always so frank 
and straight. The idea of his running off that way!” 

“Why didn’t he tell us good-bye?” said Mrs. Barton. 

“I suppose he never thought of it,” suggested Grace. 

“It’s a man’s business to think of his friends!” said 
Clara. “To run off without a word is downright mean.” 

“Clara,” said Mrs. Barton in a calm, reflective way, 
“I don’t think that Rhett is mean. I don’t see how he 


200 DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 

could be mean. His mother was my dear friend and 
his father was a good rebel soldier, so you see Rhett 
couldn’t be mean.” 

Grace made no comment; she put the letter in her 
desk and still pondered over it. “Why praise Lord 
Apohaqui to me?” she asked herself. “Why drag his 
name in at all? I know Rhett does not like him—and 
to hope, if I get into another scrape, that Lord Apoha¬ 
qui will get me out! As if—as if Lord Apohaqui be¬ 
longs to me! As if,” she went on slowly in her musings, 
“as if he wanted to get rid of us and turn us over to a 
—a stranger. It’s unkind of Rhett, not at all like the 
friend he pretends to be. Well, he may go ; we can get 
along without him, the mean selfish thing!” 

These were the words of her secret thoughts; but 
were there no thoughts deeper yet which she dared not 
clothe in words? Did she really think her old friend a 
“mean, selfish thing”? Had she no vague suspicion as 
to the real cause that had driven Rhett from the field? 
Who can read the secrets of a young girl’s heart—the 
vague, first dawn of feelings altogether unknown even 
to herself? 

The experiences in Holloway jail were enough to give 
the average tourist at least a temporary dislike for the 
English capital; moreover, the Bartons had already seen 
the principal sights of London and therefore,. shortly 
after the trial, they decided to go over to Tyrol. 

In the meantime, while they were reaching this deci¬ 
sion, Lord Apohaqui’s frame of mind was not pleasant. 
Grace’s conduct during the trial had won his highest 
respect,—but why had she gotten herself into so unusual, 
so unpleasant a predicament? “Were she only under 
the restraint usual for English girls,” he thought, “she 
would be all I could desire, but to run over London 

as free, as unprotected as a street flower-girl-” It 

was this sort of thing that was beginning to prey on 
the Englishman’s mind. “Of course,” said Lady Apo¬ 
haqui, when her son related the affair of the trial, “of 
course that ends your project of marriage?” 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


201 


“Why should it end it?” said Lord Apohaqui. 

“Would you marry a woman who has been tried for 
stealing?” 

“She did not steal—the fact is as clear as day.” 

“But she suffered the degradation of a trial.” 

“Any one may be accused and tried. You are not fair, 
mother.” 

“Miss Barton’s offense is not so much the trial as 
putting herself in the way to be tried. A well-behaved 
girl would not run over London without a chaperon, 
risking to be insulted in this wise. This is a social crime, 
and my son cannot afford to marry a social outcast!” 

“Good God, mother! You have no right to call that 
girl a social outcast.” 

“She is—and should be—from the society you and 
I move in. At any rate I shall have nothing more to 
do with her.” 

“You are very, very unfair. An accident like that 
might happen to any one,—to a duchess.” 

“But they do not happen to duchesses, and they would 
not have happened to this American girl had she gone 
under the wing of a chaperon, as all decent girls do. 
Are you so in love with this Miss Barton that you are 
loath to let her go?” 

“Suppose I am in love with her, what of it?” demanded 
the young man fiercely. “She is a woman no man need 
be ashamed to love.” 

“I thought this was a case of mere business, to replen¬ 
ish your empty purse?” 

“Business be d-d!” blurted out the son, angrily. 

“Charles!” 

“Sometimes,” he said, by way of apology, “a fellow’s 
feelings get the better of his manners.” 

“So it seems,” returned his mother coldly. 

Lord Apohaqui arose, thrust his hands into his pockets 
and took a turn up and down the floor before speaking. 
“The fact is,” he said, stopping in front of his mother 
and leaning against the mantel, “although at first it was 
a mere business affair, it is so no longer. The more I 



202 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


see of Miss Barton the less I think of her money,—the 
more I think of herself. If this be love-” 

“It resembles it,” interrupted the mother, “and the 
sooner you get out of the scrape the better.” 

“But I don’t want to get out of it. You should have 
seen her in the court-room, calm, dignified, lady-like; 
no queen could have been more so,—and then the sweet¬ 
ness of her nature! No resentment against the unfortu¬ 
nate woman who had placed her in that humiliating 
position. Mother, if you cannot find in this something 
to admire, to love-” 

“Charles,” said Lady Apohaqui, with emphasis, “all 
this is nonsense! Certainly, beauty and good nature 
count for much, but as long as we live in Society—and 
you and I do not propose to get out of it—obedience 
to outward forms is of more importance than good 
nature or good looks. It would not be morally wrong 
for a lady to walk on Regent Street barefooted, but 
your wife had better break a moral law in private than 
outrage the rules of good form in public. Were Miss 
Barton the only rich girl in the world, you might be 
excused for marrying her, but as long as England has 
many girls who do not act so insanely as to go slumming 
in the East End you will be mad, positively mad, in 
marrying her.” 

“At any rate there is method in my madness,” said 
Lord Apohaqui. “You yourself agreed that it is neces¬ 
sary for me to marry an heiress.” 

“I seriously doubt if she is as rich as reported. Such 
things are always exaggerated. A rich girl would have 
had opportunities, even in America, to acquire at least 
the appearances of propriety.” 

“There is no doubt as to her wealth,” replied Lord 
Apohaqui. “American girls are reared differently from 
English girls; they are permitted more freedom. Miss 
Barton has taken up what are called humanitarian ideas; 
she has a generous, impulsive heart and her mother 
never tries to restrain her.” 

“I should say she has a foolish, reckless nature; and 



DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


203 


of all creatures a self-willed, opinionated wife is the 
most unendurable. I never wish to see any of the family 
again!” 

“You have an engagement to take them to Lady 
Defreese’s reception,” said Lord Apohaqui, coldly, “and 
to Richmond. Do you mean to offer them a decided 
insult?” 

“Those engagements were made before this last abom¬ 
inable affair. I have the right to break with such 
persons.” 

“How will you do it? What will you say?” 

“I shall have a headache. Headaches are invaluable 
to ladies in Society.” 

The outcome of this conversation was that Lord Apo¬ 
haqui himself became the bearer of a politely worded 
note expressing Lady Apohaqui’s regrets that a very 
severe headache prevented, etc., etc. 

Mrs. Barton smiled as she read this note. “This is 
quite a coincidence,” she said serenely. “Clara, give 
Lord Apohaqui that note Grace wrote. We were just 
about to send your mother word, Lord Apohaqui, that 
we are feeling too shaky to leave the hotel.” 

Notwithstanding the polite wording of Lady Apoha- 
qui’s note, Grace suspected that this sudden canceling 
of engagements was due to the jail episode. There was 
a certain embarrassment in Lord Apohaqui’s manner, 
a slight trace of anxiety; above all there was an absence 
of any reference to future engagements. But she mani¬ 
fested no sign of her suspicions as she expressed the 
hope that his mother’s indisposition was not serious. 

“Not serious, but vexatious, especially to me,” re¬ 
turned the young Englishman. “I had looked forward 
to the pleasure of showing you something of London 
society.” 

“You are very kind,” said Grace. “When we came 
to England it was with no expectation of seeing anything 
of the social world, and our stay will be so short we 
could not prpfit by Lady Apohaqui’s kindness even were 


204 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


she well enough to chaperon us. We leave London 
to-morrow.” 

'To-morrow?” voice and eyes both indicated genuine 
disappointment. 

“Yes. Mamma is not strong; the grief and anxiety 
she suffered while I was in jail have upset her nerves. 
We go to Riva in the Tyrol to stay until mamma gets 
over her shock. A sudden noise, a slamming door, the 
entrance of a servant when not expected startles her 
and gives her vague fears that some officer of the law 
has come to get me. That is why we are going to Riva.” 

“Riva?” said Lord Apohaqui, after expressing the 
hope that Mrs. Barton would soon recover, “I am told 
that is an extremely quaint old city. I have long in¬ 
tended to take a run to the Tyrol.” 

“You must let us know if you come while we are 
there,” said Mrs. Barton. 

Lord Apohaqui looked at Grace, but she did not 
second her mother’s invitation, and when the young 
Englishman took his departure it was with a heavy heart. 
He knew within himself that he would go to Riva, but 
whether his going would result in good was a question 
he could not answer. 

The next day the Bartons left England, but not be¬ 
fore they had called at Newgate to bid Mr. Gassaway 
good-bye. Grace again asked leave to pay the fine and 
thus restore the American to. liberty, but the author of 
the G. A. N. would not consent. 

“It would not be treating the Queen right,” he said. 
“You know I am her guest. She asked me to stay ten 
days and ten days I shall stay to oblige her and also 
to'finish pickling and preserving pointers of life in an 
English jail; you have no idea how interesting they are.” 

“Yes, I have an idea,” returned Grace, smiling at the 
recollection of her own jail experience. “My stay in 
Holloway was not as long as yours in Newgate, but 
it was long enough. It gave me all the idea I want of 
English prisons.” 

“That’s because you are not writing a G. A. N.,” said 


DISAPPROVES OF BARTONS 


205 


Gassaway, grinning. When they had gone he wrote 
this hurried letter to Rhett Calhoun: 

“Newgate Prison, July- 

Rhett Calhoun, poste restante, Paris— 

My Dear Rhett:—This morning I received your letter 
telling of your departure for Paris, and this afternoon 
I received a call from the Bartons who leave to-morrow 
for Riva in the Tyrol. What the deuce is the matter 
with you all? That English lord isn’t in it; at any rate 
he isn’t going to the Tyrol, and the Bartons are sick of 
English society under Lady Apohaqui’s wing. Were 
I you I should go to Riva, though there is no need 
of hurrying as she is to be there a month or more. I 
get out of this next Tuesday and start immediately for 
Lucerne. Meet me there. Then we’ll tramp over the 
mountains to Innsbruck and on to Riva. 

Ever thine, 

. GASSAWAY.” 

“P. S. My note-book is fairly bulging with G. A. N. 
pointers. Lucky thing, this Newgate business—wish 
you had been committed too; you would have enjoyed 
it.” 

Rhett was not inclined to admit that he would have 
enjoyed a sojourn in Newgate, but the rest of Mr. Gassa- 
way’s letter gave him unqualified delight. Surely Lord 
Apohaqui must have abandoned his pursuit of Miss 
Barton. Perhaps he had proposed and been rejected. 
At any rate it could not be that Grace really cared for 
the Englishman or she would not thus quickly leave 
England. Yes, Gassaway’s plan was a good one. He 
would go to Lucerne and then when the American 
joined him they would tramp together to Riva. Rhett 
was now a little ashamed of his sudden flight from Lon¬ 
don and resolved to write to Grace from Innsbruck. He 
felt that he would never have the courage to tell Grace 
the real reason of his abrupt departure from England, 
but he might manage to write enough of his inward 
hopes and fears to cause her to forgive him. 



CHAPTER XX. 

A COMEDY IN TYROL. 

The garden of the Hotel di Riva, on Lake Garda, 
is one of the most delightful spots in Tyrol. The waters 
of the lake stretch south to Italy and are hemmed in 
on either side by lofty mountains that in places break 
abruptly off at the water’s edge forming sheer prec¬ 
ipices three thousand feet high. The village of Riva 
is at the extreme north end of this deep, dazzling inland 
sea, and the garden of the hotel is at the extreme end 
of the village. Although beyond Italy’s northernmost 
frontier, it is so sheltered by towering mountains that 
orange and lemon trees flourish and fill the air with 
fragrance. 

On a certain afternoon in August, Mr. Louis Caroll, 
now of Rome, formerly of Georgia, sat in this garden 
on a bench near the water’s edge looking out over the 
beautiful lake, and reflecting on the business that had 
brought him to Riva. Three years ago his sister Marina 
had never tired of singing the praises of her school¬ 
mates the Bartons of Talladega; whenever Marina re¬ 
turned home on a visit it was with some new story 
about the two sisters, who were the belles of the Finisher 
Institute; and in those days Caroll had been romantic 
enough to correspond with Clara Barton and even to 
send her his picture. Clara did not send him her pic¬ 
ture, but Marina had told him that Miss Barton was 
beautiful. He knew from her letters that she was bright 
and vivacious,—and now he was to meet this paragon 
of whom he had heard so much during the past chree 
years. His friend Calhoun had telegraphed him from 
Paris that the Bartons were on their way to Riva and he 
had instantly come down from his summer camp m the 
Engadine to meet them. 


(206) 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


207 


While revolving these things in his mind Mr. Caroll 
was looking out over the water, and as he looked he 
finally became aware of the fact that the Desenzano 
steamer was approaching. Picking up the field glass 
that lay on the bench by his side he focused it on the 
steamer. “By Jove!” he exclaimed, “she has a passen¬ 
ger.” 

Inasmuch as steamers are intended to carry passen¬ 
gers, Caroll’s exclamation may seem superfluous; but 
after the first of July the little boat that plies along 
Garda’s cliffs from Desenzano' in Italy to Riva in the 
Tyrol seldom carries anything but freight. On this 
August afternoon, however, the steamer actually did 
have a passenger who, to Caroll’s surprise, proved to 
be one of his Roman acquaintances, the Count Marto 
Volpi. “What the mischief brings him here?” wondered 
Caroll. “Chianti told me Volpi was too impecunious 
even to pay his board in Rome, much less to summer 
in Tyrol.” 

The dock was only two hundred yards distant, and 
Caroll was there before the boat anchored. When the 
solitary passenger on the upper deck saw Caroll his 
dark face lighted up, he waved his hand, laughed and 
blew kisses in the air. “Ah, Luigi mio! Dis ees Heaven! 
I look around, no friend, everybody stranger! Den 
your face appear! It ees too much! I am too happy!” 

“You gush as much as ever!” laughed Caroll. “I 
thought you kept that sort of thing for Italy. We are 
in Austria now.” 

“You Americans are wonderful!” said the Count, 
gazing at Caroll with admiration. “Last month you say 
addio, you go America! And yet now as soon again I 
find you in Riva! How you jump so quick?” 

“I have not jumped so quickly,” replied Caroll. “I 
have not been to America. Shortly after "saying addio 
to you, my dear Count, I received a commission to 
make a copy of my ‘Tide of Time’, which means another 
winter for me in Rome.” 

“Another winter in Rome, eh? Ah! how that my 


208 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


heart rejoice! But, caro Luigi, tell me that you will not 
yourself envelop in art as you have done de two years 
past. Statues, paintings—ah yees, dey are grand! But, 
Dio mio! shall dey blind us to de—de—vat you call 
beauties of flesh and blood? One woman beautiful, 
filled with life, ees twenty statues worth!” 

“I see you have another love affair on hand,” said 
Caroll, smiling. “Who is she, Count? Who is the 
woman beautiful, filled with life, that brings you to Riva 
in August ?” 

Volpi’s handsome face lighted up as he twirled the 
ends of his dark mustache and told his story. “I haf 
not seen her. I not know if she ees beautiful, I only 
hope so. De Countess Chianti haf not seen her and 
so she not know. But she haf heard dat she ees as 
beautiful as she ees rich. I shall see her to-night.” 

That evening Caroll and the Count met in the garden 
on the edge of the lake. The night was dark, the lighted 
end of the Count’s cigar was the only visible object. “I 
haf see her,” said Volpi as he took a seat on the bench 
by Caroll’s side. “Ah, Dio mio! I haf see her, haf hear 
her speak!” 

“And she is beautiful?” 

“Beautiful? Diavolo! she ees plain like vat you 
Americans call one mud fence. Ah me! I not know 
what I do!” 

“A mud fence? That means downright ugly, Count,” 
laughed Caroll. “Too bad! Especially as you have 
come so far to see her.” 

The Count sighed and bewailed his hard luck. 

“What will you do, Count? Give her up?” 

“Gif her up? Nevaire! I marry her. I must marry 
de rich wife. Of myself I haf no money.” 

“But you who adore beauty—what a fate!” 

“It ees cruel, diavolo! Yes, vaire cruel, but she haf 
much money, caro Luigi, much money. My wife must 
haf de money, my sweetheart she must haf de beauty!” 

The Italian method of arranging matrimonial affairs 
was rather shocking to the young American’s ideas, 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


209 


but he made no comment, having- often heard of it be¬ 
fore. “When did you first learn of this rich girl, Count?” 
he asked. 

“Yesterday. Chianti come to me with a letter in his 
hand. ‘Dis letter ees from Marie/ say Chianti; den he 
tell me I must to Marie go immediate. I ask, ‘If she 
ees sick why not you, her husband, go immediate?’ 
Chianti shrug his shoulder. ‘It ees for you, not for me, 
dat you go immediate.’ Den he gif me de letter he haf 
got from Marie and I understand why I must go to 
her in Riva. See for yourself, Luigi.” 

The Count took a scrap of'paper from his pocket 
and handed it to Caroll, who struck a match and by 
its flickering light read the following fragmentary lines: 

“-quiet here but pleasant and in a few days will 

be pleasanter .still, as some of my countrywomen are 
coming. The Padrone tells me they have telegraphed 
for rooms. I have heard of them—a fine American 
family, the Bartons of Alabama, very rich and only two 
daughters.” 

“The Bartons of Alabama?” said Caroll, handing the 
scrap of paper back to the Count. “Are they the people 
you have come to see?” 

“Yes. When my cousin read Marie’s letter he say, 
‘Here ees a chance for Volpi to himself establish com¬ 
fortable and pay moneys he me owe so many year, what 
you call kill de two bird wid de one stone.’ Chianti 
know vat good ting for Italian Count to marry rich 
American girl. Before he marry Marie he all time 
borrow money. Now he no more borrow, he lend to 
me, he haf good income from de American wife. See?” 

Caroll saw; indeed, even a blind man might have 
seen after so lucid an explanation; Caroll was too familiar 
with the matter-of-fact way these things are talked of 
in Italy to receive any new shocks, or to express his 
own opinions on the subect. 

“Dis American ees vaire rich,” continued the Count. 
“She haf travel wid two maids and her mamma. And 
de maids—ah, Dio mio! You should dem see, Luigi 



210 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


—as lofely as Venus. I haf dem see in de salon and 
my heart go out to dem!” 

“If that is so,” said Caroll, “take one of the maids 
and pass by the ugly mistress.” 

“Lofe in a cottage ees good for Americans, but not 
for Italian nobleman,” said the Count. “Nobleman 
must haf palace, carriages, horses, money—vat you call 
de luxuries.” 

“Yes,” replied Caroll. “You are the helpless and 
unhappy victim of your class. What a misfortune to 
be born noble!” 

“Dat ees true, vaire true,” assented the Count. “I 
tell you in one rhyme, Luigi, in one rhyme dat I see 
in your paper English how it ees wid de nobleman. 
Before I one girl to marry can ask 

Dere must be a vision of tings 
Which de hard cash brings: 

A winter at Nice, 

Wid a servant apiece, 

A long yachting cruise, 

Two Napoleon shoes, 

Plenty of wine, 

Two hours to dine. 

Dere must be all dis when I von girl request me to 
marry.” 

How strangely was fate working! Here was Caroll 
at Riva to see a young girl of whom he had heard much; 
and here was another man on the same mission. Both 
had been told the girl was beautiful; the one had seen 
her and pronounced her plain, not to say ugly. How 
could his sister Marina have so misled him? Why did 
his friend so mislead him? Was it merely a sorry joke 
to induce him to go out of his way to see a girl “as 
ugly as a mud fence”? 

While turning these matters over in his mind the 
two men slowly walked back to the hotel. As soon as 
the sound of their footsteps died away there was a noise 
as of rustling silken skirts in the rear of the bench on 



“Ah, Dio mio! I haf see her ! ” said count Volpi. 


* 























































4 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


211 


which the Count and Caroll had been sitting, and two 
figures rose up in the darkness and turned and looked 
in the direction the two men had taken. “These stupid 
foreigners,” said one of the two, “must be as blind as 
bats. The idea of calling us as ugly as mud fences— 
the crazy old Dago!” 

“I do not think he is old, Clara.” 

“Maybe not; but he is blind or he couldn’t call us 
ugly. Did he mean you or me, Grace?” 

“Oh! I’ll take it all to myself, dear,” laughed Grace. 
“He is welcome to call me ugly.” 

“But to call you ugly would show he’s the craziest 
lunatic in Europe.” 

“Clara,” said Grace, in a reflective tone, “a mistake 
has been made.” 

“How?” 

“Agnes had on her best gown, the one mamma gave 
her. She looked really stylish in it, but you know the 
poor girl is not pretty,—she’s too sallow and thin and 
sad.” 

“What has Agnes to do with it?” 

“The Count has made a mistake. At dinner to-night 
Agnes wore her new silk gown; you and I had just come 
in from the long ride in the cars. We were in our old 
gray traveling gowns and were too lazy and too hungry 
to dress for dinner. Don’t you see?” 

“Oh, I see! I see!” cried Clara clapping her hands 
joyously. “The hotel people took Agnes for a rich girl 
and you and me for her maids, and they have put the 
Count on the wrong track. That is fun.” 

“It will be fun—if we can keep it up,” said Grace. 

“I wish we could keep it up! I would like to pass 
as a poor servant-maid just once to see how these for¬ 
eigners behave to us.” 

“You heard him say he would marry the girl no matter 
how ugly she is? Well, I’ve got a plan that will work 
beautifully if only Agnes will help us and mamma won’t 
betray us.” 

“Mamma can’t very well betray us since she can’t 


212 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


speak a word of French, Italian or anything but her 
dear old English/’ said Clara. “What do you propose?” 

“Agnes must take your place; there is no one to take 
my place so it can be given out that I stopped in Dresden 
to study German. You and I will play lady’s maids; 
you shall be Agnes Allan, I will be Lucy. I am mamma’s 
maid, you are Agnes’ maid. It is thus we must become 
acquainted with this Italian nobleman who has come 
to ask one of us to marry him.” 

The two girls stole back to the hotel and up to their 
mother’s room. Agnes was called, the episode of the 
garden was told, Grace’s scheme detailed and after some 
difficulty Mrs. Barton’s and Agnes’ objections were over¬ 
come. “The acting will all be ours,” said Grace. “We 
will assume a rather humble air and style of dress, walk¬ 
ing a little behind mamma and Agnes and carrying 
shawls and books. All you will have to do, mamma, 
will be to remember about the changed names. I am 
Lucy and Clara is Agnes; Agnes must be called Clara.” 

When the little drama was arranged to her satisfaction, 
Grace took out her writing materials and began scrib¬ 
bling. 

“Jotting down ‘pointers’, a la Gassaway?” asked Clara. 

“Yes, a little pointer. I saw it in an English paper 
the other day. I mean to throw it into the enemy’s 
camp to offset that doggerel he repeated. Listen: 

When a girl says ‘No’! 

It’s so different—oh! 

There’s a vision of things 

That poverty brings- 

A winter complete 
On Uneasy Street, 

A temptation to rob, 

A two Napoleon job, 

A boarding-house meal 
And a brand new deal, 

For it’s different—oh! 

When a girl says—‘No!’ ” 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


213 


“How will you get it to him?” asked Clara. 

“Oh, I shall find a chance. When the Count is in 
the very hottest agony of making love to Agnes I’ll 
throw it at him; or maybe I may send it at once before 
the play begins. At any rate he shall get it, Clara, have 
no fear.” 

The day after his arrival at Riva when Count Volpi 
joined Caroll at breakfast in the garden, three letters 
lay on his plate. The first two were duns, forwarded 
from Rome; these the Count coolly tore into bits and 
tossed in the air, letting the pieces flutter down on the 
grass, like flakes of snow. The third missive brought 
a frown to the Italian’s swarthy brow. 

“Anything wrong?” asked Caroll. 

“Wrong? Yes, it ees wrong,—vaire wrong, though 
maybe you t’inlc it ees a goot joke.” 

“I?” said Caroll, lifting his eyebrows. 

“Wid me it ees no joke; it ees vaire serious; it ees 
one grand passion.” 

“Of what are you talking. Count? What is your grand 
passion?” 

Volpi pushed the letter across the table It was the 
doggerel verse Grace had written. Caroll laughed. “You 
accuse me of this?” 

“Certainment—I haf talk only to you.” 

“I assure you that it is not my work. I never saw 
these lines before. Possibly you have repeated your lines 
to Miss Barton and this is her reply. Bright girl, even 
if she is ugly.” 

Volpi was positive he had not repeated the rhymes 
to any one but Caroll, but the latter had his own opinion 
of the Count’s accuracy. “It is to be hoped, Count, 
that this is not her final answer to your suit.” 

Volpi smiled complacently. “I haf no fear. Wid de 
ladies Italian I haf goot luck; why should I not haf goot 
luck wid de ladies American? Chianti haf marry a lady 
American; he haf no difficulty. Chianti say American 
girls come to Europe to make matrimony; American 
girls lofe titles and you haf no titles in your country.” 


214 A COMEDY IN TYROL 

“We have plenty of judges and colonels/’ laughed 
Caroll. 

“Yees, but no noble titles, and dat force de rich Sig- 
norinas to come to England, to Italy to make de noble 
marriage.” 

During the afternoon Count Volpi remained closeted 
with his cousin’s wife, asking questions about the Bar¬ 
tons and planning a matrimonial campaign. Caroll put 
in his afternoon climbing one of the neighboring moun¬ 
tains, while the Bartons sat out in the garden on the 
banks of the lake, reading and inhaling the soft breath 
of the winds wafted northward from Italy across the 
Lake of Garda’s cool and peaceful waters. Agnes was 
dressed in one of Clara’s handsome gowns; there was 
so little difference in the height of the two girls that the 
gown fitted Agnes quite as well as Clara. Mrs. Barton 
and Agnes sat together on one bench reading; Grace and 
Clara, as befitted poor traveling companions,' were on 
a bench some distance in the rear, sewing. While the 
party was thus disposed, the Countess Marie de Chianti 
came sauntering down from the hotel, a book in one 
hand, a big red parasol in the other, and close at her 
heels an ugly pug dog with bow-legs and a tail that was 
twisted as tight as a corkscrew. The Countess was a 
little creature; she had a worn appearance, her cheeks 
were thin and sallow. But apparently she was still alive 
to all the coquetries of her sex. On each sallow cheek 
was a little round spot of rouge; there were dark rings 
under her eyes and incipient crows-feet were visible. 
Neither the wrinkles nor the loss of flesh seemed the 
result of bad health or age, but rather of worry. A 
casual acquaintance of the Countess Marie might ask, 
“What has she to worry about? Her highest ambition 
has been attained, why is she not satisfied and happy?” 
When in Rome her outward life is one long round of 
amusements, balls, receptions, teas, dances—but her in¬ 
ward life! ah! what is that? The noble Count who be¬ 
fore marriage had seemed to her a second Romeo did not 
permit even the honeymoon to wax and wane before he 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


215 


showed the cloven hoof and let her feel that he was her 
lord and master. Within ten days after their marriage 
in New York, while on the steamer en route for Italy, 
he roundly slapped his bride on both cheeks. From 
that time on he had often “corrected” her by even more 
heroic means. Intimate friends acquainted with these 
domestic episodes did not marvel that ten years of mar¬ 
ried life had sufficed to transform a bright butterfly of 
a girl into a miserable woman with rouged cheeks and 
crows-feet around her eyes. 

It was this painted reminiscence of the once pretty 
Marie Van Cortlandt, native of New York, that came 
up to the bench in the Garden di Riva and bowed and 
smiled and presented Mrs. Barton a square bit of paste¬ 
board whereon was engraved the Chianti monogram and 
her name, “Marie, Countess di Chianti.” “Of course 
you would never guess from my name that I am Ameri¬ 
can,” said the little Countess with affected gayety, “but 
I am just as American as though my name were Smith 
or Jones. That is why I have come out to see you. 
The Padrone told me you were from America and that 
you have been out in the garden since breakfast. It 
is lovely here, is it not?” 

“Yes, it is beautiful,” murmured Mrs. Barton, with 
a troubled look in her usually honest eyes. It was 
utterly contrary to the instincts of her nature to conceal 
things; she was too frank, too candid to play a part, 
and when this native American introduced herself, Mrs. 
Barton at once thought of the little comedy her daugh¬ 
ters had induced her to sanction and consequently of the 
fibs she would have to tell when speaking of her family. 
Naturally, the Countess would ask if she were alone. 
How could she, who never in her life had attempted to 
prevaricate, say that she had one daughter when she 
had two? How could she introduce a plain, melancholy 
woman of twenty-five as her daughter and her own 
bright, happy girls as mere traveling companions? Agnes 
came to the good lady’s assistance and took upon her¬ 
self all the sin of fibbing. 


216 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


“Mamma,” she said, “introduce me to the lady.” 
When the introduction was over Agnes resumed: 
“Mamma and I both think this is the prettiest place we 
have seen in Europe. I almost fear we shall become 
weaned from dear old America. Do you think that 
possible, mamma?” 

“Never! There is no place as good and sweet to me 
as Alabama,” replied Mrs. Barton with a sigh of relief. 
She felt that she had crossed a very difficult place indeed. 

“I suppose, Countess,” said Agnes, “that you are en¬ 
tirely European by now?” 

“No, no! I never speak of my home to the people 
here, but I never forget it. My heart is always there.” 

“You go back on visits, do you not?” 

“I have not been back once since my marriage.” 

“Not once? Do you dread the ocean?” 

“Oh, no!” replied the Countess, with a short, bitter 
laugh. “But my husband does not like America.” 

“Not like America?” repeated Mrs. Barton, opening 
wide her mild eyes. “What is the matter with him? 
Any one who finds fault with America must be light¬ 
headed. Don’t you think so, Countess?” 

“As it is my husband who finds the fault,” said the 
Countess, with the same bitter little laugh, “I suppose 
I must not say he is light-headed. You know a wife 
must agree with what her husband says.” 

“No,” returned Mrs. Barton, seriously, “not if he 
abuses your country, because, my dear, you must know 
if any man prefers Europe to America there is something 
wrong about him—very wrong!” 

At this moment Count Volpi came sauntering up and 
was introduced by the Countess to Mrs. and Miss Bar¬ 
ton, “of America.” 

“From Alabama,” added Mrs. Barton with gentle 
pride. “We are from the South, Count. You must not 
take us to be Massachusetts Yankees who talk through 
their noses.” Volpi bowed with the profoundest respect 
and gallantly observed he would have known at a glance 
that the Signora Barton and her lovely daughter were 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


217 


from a land over which bent blue skies and where the 
air was fragrant with flowers. “You talk just like a 
poet, Count,” said Mrs. Barton with a smile. “Agnes 
—I mean Clara,—don’t you think the Count looks like 
a poet?” 

Grace and Clara, as befitted their pretended positions, 
sat silently on a bench some distance behind that on 
which Mrs. Barton and Agnes and the Countess were 
seated, and before which stood Count Volpi. Grace 
and Clara could not hear Volpi’s words, but the defer¬ 
ence, the courteous attention, the sympathetic, respect¬ 
ful glances which the Italian bestowed upon the poor 
preacher’s daughter were plainly visible to the two 
American girls and excited their indignation. 

“Just look, Grace,” whispered Clara. “See how grand 
and polite he is—what splendid manners—and all be¬ 
cause he thinks Agnes is rich! He doesn’t even see us!” 

“Because we are the poor traveling companions,” said 
Grace. “Clara, any woman who marries a man, know¬ 
ing he courts her for her money, ought to be locked up 
in an asylum. What can she expect but unhappiness?” 

“Were I a lawmaker,” said Clara, “I would have a law 
to head off these titled paupers.” 

“How can that be done?” 

“They shouldn’t be allowed to get their income from 
America. If they sold out their American goods and 
land, all right; but this thing of letting people live in 
Europe and draw their incomes every year from America 
isn’t right.” 

The bench on which Grace and Clara were sitting 
faced the lake; to their left was a thicket and Louis 
Caroll, winding his way through this thicket, emerged 
into the open garden at the water’s edge not five yards 
from where the two girls sat. He saw them, and in fact 
overheard Clara’s remark. “I beg your pardon, ladies,” 
said Caroll, “I thought I heard the sound of my native 
tongue.” 

“Yes, we speak English,” said Grace calmly. 

“American, I think?” 


218 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


“Yes.” 

“I am always so glad to see my countrymen and 
women,” continued Caroll, still holding his Alpine hat 
in his hand, “that I cannot resist the pleasure of a word 
with them. Have you been long in Europe?” 

“About two months.” 

“And I, alas! nearly three years.” 

“If it is ‘Alas’, why do you stay?” 

“A man’s business is his master; my business holds 
me here, but my heart is always in America. By the 
time you have been abroad as long as I, you also will 
rejoice to hear your native tongue and possibly, as boldly 
as I, will venture to speak to compatriots.” 

“We have not been away from home as long as you,” 
returned Grace, “but we also are glad to see and speak 
with people from our own country. May we ask what 
State you are from?” 

“Georgia.” 

“Oh, you are Southern? I am glad!” cried Clara. 
“We are from Alabama, which you know is a sister 
State of Georgia’s.” 

“The children of sisters are cousins,” said Caroll seri¬ 
ously. “I am happy indeed to find two such lovely 
cousins.” 

“Perhaps,” said Grace, with simple gravity, “when 
you know the position we at present occupy you may 
not be so ready to acknowledge kinship.” 

“What do you mean? What position do you occupy?” 

“My sister and I are merely traveling companions 
for Mrs. Barton and her daughter.” 

“Mrs. Barton, from Alabama?” 

“Yes. Why do you seem astonished?” 

“To tell the truth, I am a little astonished; yet there 
is nothing to astonish me. I came here on purpose to 
see the Bartons.” 

“Do you know them?” 

“Only from hearsay. My sister Marina was a school¬ 
mate of the Miss Clara Barton, and painted her picture 
in such lovely colors that I naturally wished to see her. 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


219 


Since I have heard conflicting accounts of her I am 
more anxious than ever to see her and judge for my¬ 
self.” 

“Conflicting accounts?” 

“Yes. Marina described her as lovely—indeed Marina 
thought both sisters lovely,—but an acquaintance has 
recently told me that one of them is not pretty at all.” 

Caroll presented Rhett Calhoun’s letter of introduction 
to Mrs. Barton that evening in the hotel parlor, and 
was duly introduced to Agnes still masquerading as 
<f Miss Clara Barton”. Caroll asked where Miss Grace 
Barton was. Agnes saved Mrs. Barton all trouble by 
explaining that “Grace had stopped in Dresden to study 
German.” The next morning when Caroll found Grace 
and Clara again on their bench in the garden and told 
them he had met the Bartons, Grace asked which had 
given the more truthful account, his sister Marina or 
his Riva acquaintance. “That is hard to say,” replied 
Caroll, hesitatingly. “Miss Barton hardly comes up to 
the picture my sister painted. Marina has always been 
very enthusiastic. Everything she loves looks beautiful 
in her eyes.” 

“But you do not love Miss Barton and so do not find 
her beautiful?” said Clara. 

“That isn’t a fair way to put it,” replied Caroll. “I 
didn’t say one has to love a woman to find her beautiful, 
but sometimes when one does love a woman one finds 
her beautiful, even though in reality she is exceedingly 
plain. Had Marina been talking about you I should not 
find myself wondering at her taste.” 

“Please do not degenerate into flattery,” said Clara. 
“We do not like it.” 

“Why not? If a girl is lovely, what’s the harm in 
telling her?” 

“Don’t you say that just the same whether the girl 
is lovely or ugly?” 

“No, I do not. True, I don’t tell an ugly girl that 
she is ugly; that would be needlessly cruel. But neither 


220 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


do I go out of the way to flatter and say that she is 
beautiful.” 

“What do you say?” 

“I say nothing at all.” 

“That,” said Clara with a touch of scorn in her tone, 
“is equivalent to saying if a girl is beautiful you go to 
her, talk to her, say pleasant things to her, while the 
ugly girl you pass by without a word. How do you 
know but that the ugly girl has a nobler nature, a finer 
mind than that of the beauty you flatter?” 

“I do not know,” answered Caroll frankly. “If the 
ugly girl is superior, and if accident permits us to find 
that fact out, we admire her, no matter if her form and 
face are not divine. The advantage pretty girls have 
is that they induce people to investigate. When we see 
a beautiful shop-window we enter expecting, or at any 
rate hoping, to find the goods we wish. But if the win¬ 
dow is badly arranged, if the drapery is ugly, dull—we 
pass by without a thought of entering that store.” 

“A very flattering simile,” laughed Clara, “and sister 
and I thank you for complimenting our shop-windows. 
It is very good of you, indeed.” 

“Not at all,” returned Caroll, with a bold look of 
admiration at the girl before him. “I am a reader of 
human nature, and will stake my reputation that in your 
case the whole store is as good, if not better, than the 
display in the window. It isn’t often you find brains as 
well as beauty. When you do it makes a splendid com¬ 
bination.” 

“It is a combination which may be easily bettered,” 
remarked Grace. 

“How so?” 

“By adding one important item.” 

“What item is that?” 

“Money,” nodded Grace, tapping the toe of her boot 
on the gravel. “Or maybe it would sound better to 
say bonds—a combination of brains, beauty and bonds.” 

“Confound your bonds!” exclaimed Caroll, testily. “I 
have an acquaintance—an Italian Count—who looks out 


A COMEDY IN TYROL 


221 


for that sort of thing. The Count appreciates beauty 
and brightness as much as I do, yet not long ago he 
deliberately planned to marry a girl he had never seen, 
and who, now that he has seen, he declares is painfully 
ugly. He thinks he is making a great business stroke; 

I think he is a fool. It is risky enough to marry a rich 
gifl even when she has sense and refinement; to marry 
any other sort of an heiress is sheer madness. ,, 

“What do you mean?’’ asked Clara. 

“Why, if a rich girl is at all lacking in refinement she 
will show it some day by a taunt, a sneer. ‘Who brought 
the fortune? Who pays the bills?’ What man would 
stand such questions? My Italian Count might, but no 
American would. Then too, a rich girl is so apt to be 
stiff, formal, disagreeable. See how friendly we are 
chatting here together. Do you fancy we could do this 
were you an heiress like Miss Barton?” 

“It seems, sir,” said Grace, with quiet gravity, “that 
you do not leave rich girls a single virtue. There is 
doubtless some truth in what you say, but I should be 
sorry not to think your generalizations entirely too 
sweeping. Lucy, we had better go. Mrs. Barton may 
want us.” 

“Well, confound me!” cried Caroll as he watched the 
two girls walk away. “I almost believe I’m in an en¬ 
chanted land. Whoever heard poor traveling compan¬ 
ions talk like that? They beat their mistress in looks 
and sense and everything else that’s worth having.” 

Then Caroll turned to greet Count Volpi as that ex-* 
quisite gentleman came down the garden walk to meet 
him. 


CHAPTER XXL 

COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES. 

Count Marto Volpi was a handsome, volatile Italian, 
quick, nervous, vivacious; he loved the bright, the beau¬ 
tiful, and was profoundly bored by the ugly, the dull, 
the stupid. Not that Volpi himself was profound; he 
would not have understood a woman of depth, but he 
did know how to appreciate a woman who was clever, 
quick at repartee, who had beautiful eyes and knew 
how to use them—in short, a woman who understood 
men and the art of fascinating them. Poor Agnes had 
not the faintest idea of this art; she was as plain and 
matter-of-fact in her talk with men as though flirting 
had never been invented. The half-hour that Volpi 
talked with her while the Countess Chianti engaged Mrs. 
Barton in conversation passed very slowly. “Dio mio!” 
exclaimed the Count, when he came up to where Caroll 
was standing, “Dio mio, Luigi, it ees terrible. I tink 
I go vat you call mad.” 

“What’s the matter, Count?” asked Caroll. “You 
have been talking the last half-hour with your American 
heiress. What is there in that to disconcert you?” 

“Luigi, my friend,” said Volpi, solemnly, “haf you see 
her? Haf you look at her nose, her ears? Ah! of course 
not! Ven you haf see her you will know why I say it 
ees terrible. Ven you talk to her she all time say, ‘Yes,’ 
‘No,’ ‘Yes,’ ‘No,’ like one machine. No life, no beauty, 
no what you call idea! Ah! ven you see dis, Luigi, you 
know why I go crazy!” 

“Are you talking of Miss Barton?” asked Caroll, 
coolly. 

“Dio mio! Vat for I talk of anybody else? Vat I 
care if other girl ees stupid? But to dis girl I must 
make lofe—dat is vat make me go crazy, not de mar- 

( 222 ) 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


223 


riage. Marriage ees not so bad. It ees de lofe-making. 
Ven you make de lofe you must go her way, must look 
at her wid all your eyes and make belief you lofe her/’ 
“Will it not be still worse when she is your wife?” 
“No! dat is different—vaire different. Den she go her 
way and I go my way and everybody ees vaire happy.” 

“And that is what you want? What you purposely 
strive for?” 


“Yees,” replied the Italian, his big dark eyes show¬ 
ing the astonishment Caroll’s question caused him. “Ees 
not dat vaire natural?” 

“Not to me. The wealth of Croesus would not atone 
to me for a life of unending dullness. Give me a life of 
companionship, a woman of sweetness, gentleness—a 
woman whom I can love—a woman whose mere pres¬ 
ence by my side in front of the open fire, or at my 
library table when reading by the shaded glow of my 
student-lamp,will make me happy-” 

“Aspetto—enough!” exclaimed the Count. “I not like 
talk of dat. I lofe all dat, too, but for de nobleman 
money ees necessaire. Ah, Diavolo! Why ees it dat 
de rich girl moost so ugly be? And de lofely girl moost 
so poor be? De signora Barton haf two companions, 
de signorine Allen, vaire, vaire beautiful, but no money 
—no, not one centessimo!” 

While Caroll and the Count were thus chatting and 
smoking in the garden, Grace and Clara were in Agnes’ 
room listening to an account of the Italian’s love-making. 
Volpi had placed his hand on his heart, sighed and de¬ 
clared he would be happy could he only fathom the 
depths of Agnes’ heavenly blue eyes! “Think of that,” 
said Agnes. “Heavenly blue eyes! Gold can gild any¬ 
thing. Nobody ever told me before that my eyes were 
heavenly!” 

“What did you say, Agnes?” asked Clara. 

“I said in America people do not fall in love so rapidly. 
‘You must read Romeo and Juliet,’ said the Count. ‘Dey 
fall in de lofe in two minutes.’ I said I was skeptical 
of such quick love. ‘Yees,’ was his reply, 'in your cold, 



224 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


prosaic country, but not in Italy, not in lofely Italy, 
vid de skies blue and de poetry in de air. In Italy de 
deep and deathless lofe come as quick as lightning/ ” 

At this point a gentle rap on the door interrupted 
Agnes’ narrative; Clara opened the door and in walked 
the Countess Chianti. She was very pale and had a 
sort of hunted look as if an enemy were pursuing her. 
The Countess closed the door and turned the key in 
the lock. “She is hunted,” was Grace’s inward comment. 

“Miss Barton,” said the Countess, excitedly, “pray 
excuse me. I am nervous to-day. I—I—wish to speak 
to you in private. Will you send those girls out? I 
wish to see you alone.” 

“Certainly, if you wish,” replied Agnes, “but these 
girls can be trusted implicitly.” 

“Perhaps it is as well. Some day what I say may 
concern them and they will not betray me—no, no, they 
have sweet, good faces. I will trust them. May I sit 
down?” 

Grace and Clara both sprang for a chair. 

“Madam,” said Agnes, “you look faint. Agnes, order 
some wine.” 

Clara rang the bell. The Countess took a swallow of 
the light wine the waiter brought and seemed some¬ 
what recovered from her nervous agitation. “You must 
not think me crazy, Miss Barton,” she said, with a smile. 

“No, no! We are glad to see you, dear Countess. 
If you have troubles, you will get our sympathy.” 

“Trouble?” cried the poor Countess. “Oh, you do 
not know—no one knows! Once I was free, happy as 
you are, Miss Barton, then—then—” 

Tears stopped her speech. Agnes put her arm around 
her waist, Grace clasped her hand and pressed it to as¬ 
sure the poor thing she was pitied. The Countess sobbed 
awhile, her head leaning on Agnes’ shoulder, then wiped 
her eyes and resumed her story. 

“I was only a child. My mother was dead. Papa 
loved me, but Chianti wanted to marry me; papa did 
not tell me how different foreigners are from Americans. 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


225 


I was only eighteen and very ignorant. Chianti had 
elegant manners. Oh! He was so polite, so charming 
before we were married. I thought it would be so 
pretty to be called Countess. I was then very much 
in love with the Count, I thought he was like a Prince. 
Papa was about marrying again and quite absorbed in his 
young fiancee. I knew he would not miss me,.so I 
.married the Count and was very happy the day we sailed 
'from New York. But, oh! I was so wretched the day 
we landed in Naples!” 

Here the Countess again broke into sobs and the 
girls caressed and soothed her. 

“You shall know why my happiness flew away so 
quickly,” she resumed. “You are my own people and 
you will be friends to me. I am alone here, these people 
are so strange to me, and papa is dead now, I have no¬ 
body to talk to. I cry all night and he'—Oh! he is so 
cruel, so cruel!” 

“Do you mean your husband?” asked Grace, a great 
wrath rising in her breast; it seemed to her to be so 
contemptible to be cruel to this delicate creature. 

“Yes, my husband,” replied the little Countess. “Be¬ 
fore we landed at Naples, he told me that in Italy hus¬ 
bands are the masters, that noblemen always marry for 
. money. When I asked if he had married me for my 
money, he laughed and asked me if I thought an Italian 
nobleman would marry a common American girl whose 
father was only a soap-maker if she had no fortune. 
This was on the ship. It was an Italian ship; all the 
people talked Italian; nobody spoke English except my 
husband and me. When he told me he married me for 
my money, I asked him if he loved any woman more 
than me, and—and—” 

Another storm of sobs impeded the poor creature’s 
speech. The girls redoubled their caresses and sympathy. 

“Oh!” she said, again wiping her eyes, “you are so 
good to me, it helps me to have you good! In all these 
ten years that I have been in Italy, I have never talked 
like this before.” 


226 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


“Open your whole heart to us. It will empty it of 
some sorrow,” said Grace, tenderly. 

“When you asked him if he loved anyone more than 
he loved you, what did he reply ?” asked Clara. 

“He only laughed. I insisted, then he said, 'Yes there 
was a beautiful peasant girl’; and he showed me her 
picture. She was beautiful, oh so beautiful. I loved 
the Count and you may imagine how that woman’s 
beauty was like a dagger in my heart, but I did not 
then dream that he had not given her up. I thought 
marriage was so sacred; I thought he was mine as I 
was his; but no, not so; in Rome he plainly told me 
he would not give up the girl. I said then that I would 
not be his wife any longer; that I would go back to 
papa. That angered Chianti; we both said harsh words, 
and at last he—he struck me down!” 

“Oh, the brute! The unmanly brute!” burst out from 
the indignant Clara. Grace tenderly folded the poor, 
crushed creature in her arms. 

“Poor little girl!” she murmured, “poor little wounded 
bird.” 

“Yes,” said the little Countess, again wiping her eyes, 
“I was wounded, I wanted to die, I wanted to run away. 
Had I been in my own country I would have run away, 
but I was watched, closely watched, until my health 
and spirits broke so that I no longer had the energy 
to escape. I wrote my father begging him to come to 
me. I believe now my letters were never sent. Six 
years ago papa died and my fortune was so tied up 
that my husband can only get the income. When I 
die he will lose the income. This makes Chianti very 
careful of my health. A doctor must see me Once a 
week; I am taken to places of amusement; Chianti is 
very solicitous, very polite, but I know why that is, and 
it gives me no pleasure. On the contrary, I detest his 
officious attentions. He wishes to preserve my life only 
because he will lose my money when I die. I meant 
once to run away, but my father-confessor said it would 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


22? 


be a mortal sin. You know how Catholics regard mar¬ 
riage ?” 

“Yes, I know, poor little wounded bird, I know, I 
know/’ murmured Grace with infinite pity in her voice 
and eyes. 

“Thank you,” said the Countess. “It has been long 
since anybody has said such sweet things to me. But, 
Miss Barton, it was not merely to confide my troubles 
to you that I came to your room. I want to warn you 
not to make the mistake that I made.” 

“How is there danger of that?” asked Agnes. 

“Count Volpi is here because of a letter I wrote my 
husband. I mentioned that a rich American girl was 
coming here with her mother. Volpi is my husband’s 
cousin and owes him a great deal of money. Count 
Volpi plans to marry you, Miss Barton. I do not know 
that he would treat you as his cousin treats me, but I 
fear—” 

“Do not fear, dear Countess,” said Agnes, with a smile, 
“Count Volpi will never have a chance to treat me ill 
for I shall never place myself in his power.” 

“I am glad you say that, Miss Barton; were you to 
marry him and were he to make you miserable, I should 
blame myself. It was my letter about your wealth that 
brought him to Riva. See what my husband says about 
it. I got this note from him to-day. Chianti always 
writes to me in English. I understand English better.” 

Agnes read aloud in Count Chianti’s letter, the para¬ 
graph the Countess pointed out: 

“Do all you can to promote this marriage. Volpi 
owes me fifty thousand lire. He can never repay me 
unless he marries a rich woman. Make yourself agree¬ 
able to these Americans; tell them about the happy life 
of an Italian nobleman’s wife, of the high circles they 
move in, of the titled people from all parts of Europe 
who receive them. In short, you know my wishes— 
disobey them at your peril! Promote them if you want 1 
to please me and benefit yourself!” 

“Why do you live with such a man?” asked Clara. 


228 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


“It is my duty, my father-confessor tells me—it is 
my sacred duty,” replied the Countess, meekly. 

“Not all the confessors in the world could make me 
do it,” cried Clara impetuously. “The good God puts 
brains in people’s heads to judge for themselves. If 
you wish to leave him—if living with him makes you 
miserable—you ought to follow your own judgment. 
No human or religious duty binds you to live all your 
days in wretched slavery to an unworthy man.” 

“You—you are a Protestant,” stammered the Count¬ 
ess, aghast at such audacity. It was the first time her 
ears had ever heard heresy of this awful nature. Grace 
laid her hand on her sister to prevent further outbursts, 
and soon after the Countess took her leave, receiving 
as she went the warmest expression of sympathy from 
the three girls. 

From that day the Countess and the Americans were 
very friendly, and Count Volpi imagined that affairs 
were progressing finely. He wrote his cousin that the 
Countess was behaving beautifully, that she was very 
intimate with the Bartons and he hoped soon to be in 
a position to pay that fifty thousand lire, as Miss Barton 
seemed well impressed by his suit. All this was reported 
to Agnes, who got it from the Countess, who in turn 
got it from her husband’s letters. “He writes me,” 
said the Countess, bitterly, “to say he is pleased to learn 
how well I obey his wishes.” 

Count Volpi was Agnes’ very shadow; he attended 
her when she walked, when she sailed on the lake, when 
she climbed the mountain slopes; and everywhere he 
poured into her ears the most ardent protestations of 
devotion. While this was going on between Agnes and 
the Count with Grace in the role of a poor traveling 
companion, Clara and Caroll developed a fondness for 
boating. Mrs. Barton went with them on most of their 
trips, but one afternoon, about the tenth day of their 
stay in Riva, she pleaded a “tired feeling” and said she 
would remain ashore in the garden and read her novel. 
Thus it was that Clara and Caroll went out in their boat 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


229 


alone. Grace, Agnes and Count Volpi had already 
started on a tramp up the mountain. 

The Ponal Strasse, starting at Riva and winding south¬ 
ward toward Italy, is cut into the side of the precipice 
that overhangs the lake; in some places it ascends as 
high as a thousand feet above the water. Three miles 
from Riva the road pierces the cliff instead of winding 
like a shelf along its side. As the three pedestrians ap¬ 
proached this point Grace lingered to lean over the 
parapet and looked down at the blue lake a' thousand 
feet below. Volpi and Agnes walked on into the tunnel. 
As they went further and further into the tunnel it be¬ 
came darker and darker. Grace was no longer in sight, 
and Agnes secretly felt vexed with her for leaving her 
alone with the Count. The poor girl’s life had been one 
hard, anxious struggle for bread; the soft dream of love 
had never found entrance into her heart. Volpi was very 
handsome, very courtly in his manners; his voice was 
music, his eyes were dark and dreamy. Could Agnes 
have forgotten that money, not herself, was the object 
of his worship, his many attractions would doubtless 
have charmed and soothed her heart, but knowing how 
false was every word of homage the Count uttered, there 
were times when the scornful impatience she felt toward 
him could hardly be concealed. 

As they walked on through the tunnel Volpi implored 
her for one word of encouragement to save him from 
“death and despair”. Hitherto Agnes had rebuffed the 
Count in different ways, sometimes by silence, some¬ 
times by ambiguous answers, sometimes by declarations 
against marriage, hoping to hold him at arms’ length 
until the little comedy was ended. 

“One word, lofely signorina,” implored the Count, 
“only one favorable word to enjoy my desolate heart.” 

“This is hardly proper, Count,” said Agnes. “Is it 
not customary in Italy for a gentleman to speak first 
to the lady's mother?” 

“Yees, dat ees de custom in Italy, signorina, but you 
are an American!” 


230 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


“But you are an Italian, and we are in Italy, the 
frontier passes through this tunnel. We have left Aus¬ 
tria, consequently you must now respect Italy’s social 
laws.” 

“Ah, lofely signorina, pardon, excuse; my heart ees 
so full of lofe, it precipitate, it break out, it overflow in 
your presence.” 

As the Count said this he suddenly planted himself 
in front of Agnes and seized her hand. “Pardon!” he 
cried. “My lofe break out like de fire of de volcano. 
My hand, my heart, my title, all—all ees at your feet!” 

This pretty speech had been incubating in the Count’s 
mind ever since his arrival at Riva and was beautifully 
delivered, with great fire and force and accompanied by 
appropriate gestures; the astonished Agnes feared that 
he was going to fall at her feet, but the Count stopped 
short at that dramatic act and only made as if he were 
tearing his heart from under his stiff, starched shirt-front 
and casting it on the ground before her. Agnes, angry 
and impatient, broke past her impassioned lover and 
rushed up to Grace, who by this time had entered the 
tunnel. “You are not kind,” she said, “to abandon me 
thus. It is very hard to endure.” 

“Miss Barton, pray excuse me,” said Grace. “I 
thought Count Volpi was entertaining you.” 

“I haf try,” said the Count, with a polite bow, “but 
it ees not easy for a meeserable man to entertain de 
lofeliest of signorinas.” 

“The scenery tempted me to linger,” continued Grace, 
“besides I was watching my sister in a boat a thousand 
feet below the parapet. Mr. Caroll is giving her a sail.” 

When Louis Caroll and Clara stepped into the boat 
that afternoon there was no intention on the part of 
either the young man or the young woman to discuss 
so serious a topic as matrimony. They had been for 
the past two weeks amused spectators of Count Volpi’s 
courtship of—money, and each had found the other’s 
society extremely charming, but Caroll had quite made 
up his mind that it would be improper, as well as im- 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


231 


prudent, for him to think of marriage in his present 
financial condition. He was one of the many American 
artists blessed with great expectations rather than great 
realities; he felt that some day he would win both fame 
and fortune, but that day had not yet come, and in the 
meantime he did not mean to be so imprudent, so selfish 
as to ask an eighteen year old girl to share his poverty. 

But while Grace, Agnes and Volpi were taking their 
tramp on the Ponal Strasse, Caroll and Clara sailed 
along the lake at the base of the tremendous precipice. 
The sky was blue, the air balmy, the scenery grand, 
the day perfect—“a miracle day/’ as Clara expressed it, 
—a day such as they have in Paradise. “This is Para¬ 
dise/’ said Caroll, glancing up at the heavens and around 
on the waters, and then at his charming companion. 
“Yes, this is Paradise, but”—with a deep sigh, “unfortu¬ 
nately it will be a short one for me.” 

“Why?” asked Clara, noting the sigh; what sound is 
more telling than a lover’s sigh? “The same marvelous 
sky will always be above this lake, the same picturesque 
precipices, the same forests and flashing water and vine- 
clad slopes,—the same—” 

“Yes, they will all remain, and perhaps you may be 
here to enjoy them, but I shall be gone.” 

“You?” 

What was it in the girl’s voice, in the quick change 
that went over her face as if a cloud had come between 
her and the sun, that—well, that revolutionized Caroll’s 
thoughts and actions? 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I must leave to-morrow.” 

“Must?” And the very word sounded to the young 
man’s heart as if tears were in it. The boat’s sail flapped 
idly in the dying breeze, there was a dark frown on 
Caroll’s brow. Clara timidly shot a glance at him, then 
dropped her eyes as she said softly: “Why must you 
go?” 

“I dare not stay another day.” 

“Dare not? Who will hurt you? What is the danger?” 

“Shall I tell you? May I tell you? You are the 


232 


COUNT yOLPI PROPOSES 


danger I fly from. I dare not trust myself another day 
in your presence. I have no right to be with you now. 
I feel like a villain, yes, I am a villain. I ought to have 
gone yesterday, the day before, the day before that, yes, 
I ought to have gone the very first day we met, for I 
saw, even then, that I had no business to be with you. 
Yet here I am telling you that I love you when I had 
sworn to myself not to speak a single word.” 

It is impossible to describe the swift changes that went 
over Clara’s face as she listened to this impassioned 
speech, her eyes gazing into his, his into hers, and both 
as they gazed experiencing that wonderful feeling as if 
they were being drawn nearer and nearer together until 
their very souls would mingle and blend into one. 

Then the girl’s mood swiftly changed, she straightened 
Herself up; she was no longer the willow leaning toward 
him. “Did you bring me here to make fun of me?” 
she demanded. 

“You know I did not. You know—you know!” 

“I know gentlemen seldom fall in love—really in love 
with girls in my humble position. Why don’t you fall 
in love with Miss Barton? You said you came here 
especially to see her. She is rich and has the highest 
social position.” 

“I won’t say a bad word against Miss Barton. No 
doubt she is a good sort of a woman, but I would rather 
live with you in my poor quarters in Rome on figs and 
grapes than with any other woman in a palace.” 

“That is, providing I am willing to live on figs and 
grapes.” 

“Yes, there is the rub. I have been living on next 
to nothing these last two years. In this lovely land of 
fruit and flowers artists live on very little, but you are 
accustomed to all the luxuries of wealth. I should be 
a villain to ask you to share my humble means.” 

“You do not ask me, then?” said the girl in a melan¬ 
choly tone. 

“No. But if you care enough for me to wait a few 
>years I shall begin at once to save. I shall work day and 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


233 


night and be supremely happy in the thought that you 
will be mine at last.” 

“I don’t think I could be happy,” she said, timidly, 
‘'to think you were working so hard for me.” 

“But I wouldn’t mind working. It would make me 
happy.” 

“Would—would you like to have me with you while 
you work? I wouldn’t mind the figs and grapes. I 
adore figs.” 

“Do you mean it?” cried Caroll, a rapture in his voice 
and eyes. 

“I only asked you if you would like it?” 

“Don’t tantalize a fellow. You are not cruel and it 
would be cruel to jest about my love for you. If you 
could be happy sharing my Bohemian life it would make 
that life a heaven!” 

“Then I will share it,” she said. 

It was immediately after this speech that Grace look¬ 
ing through her field glass from the Ponal Strasse a 
thousand feet above the lake, saw—or thought ishe saw— 
Caroll arise from his place in the boat, go over to Clara’s 
seat and clasp her in his arms. An hour later Caroll 
and Clara beached their little sail boat and slowly walked 
up to the hotel garden to where Mrs. Barton sat on her 
favorite bench near the water’s edge deep in her new 
novel. Clara looked very demure as Caroll, after not 
a little hemming and hawing, said: “Madam, Miss Allan 
has been good enough to promise to be my wife. As 
she is under your protection, I trust you will have no 
objection and will kindly give us your blessing.” 

Mrs. Barton, whose mind was still concerned with the 
people in the novel she was reading, was so startled and 
confused by this sudden announcement that she clean 
forgot the comedy her daughters were playing. She 
glanced inquiringly at Clara before she said: “What 
are you saying, Mr. Caroll?” 

“That this little girl here has promised to make me 
the happiest man on earth.” So astonished was Mrs. 
Barton,, and so absorbed in their own romance were 


234 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


Caroll and Clara that none of them noticed the Count, 
Agnes and Grace who had approached to within a few 
feet of Mrs. Barton’s bench, just when Caroll was speak¬ 
ing of his being the happiest man on earth. 

“Pardon, amico mio, caro Luigi,” cried the Count 
Volpi, pushing to the front with a charming smile, “a 
thousand pardon, but what you haf say ees impossible. 
The Signorina Allen cannot make you de happiest of 
men for dat man, behold! I am de happiest!” 

“How is that, Count?” said Caroll. 

“It ees so, because de Signorina Barton haf me 
promised to marry. She haf referred me to de signora 
mamma and my heart it ees too big to carry!” 

Between the people standing around her and the peo¬ 
ple in her novel Mrs. Barton’s mind grew more and more 
bewildered; finally she said, in total oblivion of the char¬ 
acters her daughters were acting: 

“My daughter referred you to me? Impossible, Count. 
My daughter hasn’t the slightest idea of getting married 
in this country. I never brought her here to settle down 
in Italy. In Alabama the Counts wait on hotel tables; 
if my girls had wanted to marry Counts they might 
have done so in Birmingham. What does the man 
mean, Grace?” 

“The Count has made a little mistake, mamma, that 
is all. He meant Agnes, not me. Agnes, did you 
promise to marry the Count?” 

“No, Miss Barton. I never promised him anything. 
I only told him to speak to Mrs. Barton and let me 
alone. I was tired of his love making.” 

Volpi stared in bewilderment. “Ees not dis lady Mees 
Barton?” pointing to Agnes. 

“No,” replied Grace, “I am Miss Barton.” And in a 
few words, quiet but decisive, she made clear the little 
comedy that had been enacted. 

Clara shot a glance at her lover to see the effect of 
Grace’s announcement; his face was grave. Clara, a httle 
frightened, timidly put her hand in his; Caroll clasped 
it—what man could have refused? But the gravity did 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


235 


not vanish. However, no one else seemed to think of 
him, for every eye was on the Count, who, although at 
first considerably puzzled, was by no means lacking in 
his usual self-assurance. It mattered little to Volpi that 
he had courted the wrong girl; some time was lost, that 
was all, a mere inconvenience which he would at once 
set about correcting. “I haf you admire all de time,” 
he said to Grace. “I haf t& myself many time repeat 
‘a vaire lofely lady’ and it me no surprise make to find 
dat you are de Signorina Barton.” 

This was five minutes after announcing to Miss Bar¬ 
ton his engagement to Agnes Allan; but the Count was 
ready to transfer his “lofe” to Grace on a moment’s 
warning. From that time on he merely bowed politely 
to Agnes when they chanced to meet, and poured all 
the passion of his soul into the genuine Miss Barton’s 
ears. To Volpi’s way of thinking this was no more than 
honorable. He had offered himself to Miss Allan under 
the mistaken idea that she was Miss Barton. As an 
honorable man, he would stand by that offer and confer 
his hand and title upon the real Miss Barton. To. Grace, 
unaccustomed to seeing men so facile in changing the 
objects of their “affection”, the whole scene was like a 
stage comedy. But, though amusing at first, it soon 
became intensely wearying and at length Grace told her 
mother she could stand it no longer. “Clara and Mr. 
Caroll keep so much to themselves, mamma, I ^am left 
completely at the Count’s mercy. He doesn t mind 
Agnes in the least; even in her presence he talks to me 
the same sort of nonsense he talked to her a week ago.” 

“What will you do, Grace?” asked Mrs. Barton. 

“We must run off and hide. Another week of Count 
Volpi would drive me wild. I can’t shut myself up in 
the hotel and he is always on the watch for me.” 

Mrs. Barton sighed. If there was anything she hated 
it was traveling. She had settled herself so comfortably 
at Riva; why did that wretched Count come and drive 
her away? “I wish,” she said petulantly, “that Congress 
would pass a law confiscating every dime a woman has 


236 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


when she marries a European. Maybe they’d let us 
alone if we had that law.” 

‘‘But we haven’t any such law, mamma, so we must 
move on.” 

“Where shall we move to?” 

“Anywhere where Volpi is not.” 

They called Clara and Caroll into counsel and it was 
decided to go to Siena. “If you go to Switzerland,” 
said Caroll, “the Count can easily find you, but he will 
not dream of anybody going to Italy in August. In 
Siena Mrs. Barton can rest just as well as here in Riva. 
Siena is on the top of a mountain and not at all a bad 
place in summer. I spent the month of July there once 
and found it delightful.” 

It was pleasant for Louis Caroll to drop into the role 
of a son and brother to Clara’s mother and sister; he 
took charge of them, bought their tickets, shipped their 
luggage and gave them general advice. The luggage 
was sent as far as Desenzano at the southern end of the 
lake; there Caroll purchased railroad tickets and re¬ 
shipped the luggage to Siena without anyone in Riva 
knowing their destination. The girls took leave of the 
Countess, but though feeling that they could trust her 
not to betray them they did not tell her where they were 
going. To no one at the hotel did they give the slightest 
intimation that they contemplated a longer journey than 
a trip by lake to Desenzano. 

Just before they started, at eight o’clock one morning, 
Grace received two letters; one was from Rhett Calhoun 
informing her that he and Gassaway were having a de¬ 
lightful tramp, that they had proceeded as far as Inss- 
bruck and in three days more would arrive in Riva. 
“How provoking!” said Grace, when she had finished 
reading Rhett’s letter. “How provoking that we shall 
have to miss him. I must leave a note for Rhett, 
mamma.” 

“Of course,” said Mrs. Barton. “Tell him to come at 
once to Siena.” 

“Yes,” said Caroll, “but unless you want Volpi to 


COUNT VOLPI PROPOSES 


237 


come too you had better warn Calhoun to say nothing 
in Riva as to where you are. Volpi is amusing but we 
have had enough of him for the present.” 

“For all time, I think,” said Grace. 

Grace kept silence as to her second letter, which in 
truth gave her much to think of. She put it in her pocket 
and at the first opportunity took it out and re-read it 
carefully. It was not a proposal of marriage nor yet a 
declaration of love, but it looked as if it might be a pre¬ 
liminary step in that direction. The writer said he 
wished to come to Riva to ask an important question. 
What could this mean? Her short acquaintance with 
Lord Apohaqui had not given her the impression that 
he was a trifler, that he would speak on any subject 
lightly. What important question did he mean to ask 
her? When a man makes a plain proposal a woman 
can accept, or she can refuse; but when he talks, or 
writes, vaguely, yet significantly, what can a girl do? 
She dare not appear to encourage him; he might say 
she had mistaken his meaning. For the same reason 
she dare not discourage him. 

After thinking over Lord Apohaqui’s letter, Grace 
went into the cabin of the little Desenzano steamer and 
wrote her reply, which Louis Caroll posted for her as 
soon as the boat landed. Soon after this the train from 
Venice rolled in and the three Barton ladies, accom¬ 
panied by Caroll and Agnes Allan, set out for Siena. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE FLIGHT TO SIENA. 

About thirty minutes before noon on the day of the 
Barton’s departure from Riva, Count Marto Volpi de¬ 
scended from his room to the garden, took his seat at 
one of the tables and ordered his breakfast. A few hours 
earlier he had had coffee and rolls served in his room, 
but that did not appear to impair his appetite and he 
ordered the usual elaborate Italian breakfast of soup, 
two kinds of meat, a salad and fruits, nuts, coffee and 
wine. When the order was given he asked the waiter 
if the Signor Caroll had breakfasted. 

“No, il signor e partito—the signor is gone.” 

“Gone? Do you mean that he has left Riva?” 

“Si signor—yes, with the American family. They took 
the Desenzano boat.” 

“Diavolo!” exclaimed Volpi, springing to his feet. 
“Will they not return?” 

When Grimaldi, the padrone, to whom Volpi hurried 
for information, explained that Caroll and the Bartons 
had paid their bills, taken all their luggage and had said 
nothing of returning, the Count realized that if he was 
to become master of Miss Barton’s millions it would 
be necessary to change his base of operations. But 
whither should he go? Whither had this American fam¬ 
ily gone? It was absurd to suppose that they intended 
remaining in Desenzano. Grimaldi shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders and expressed a thousand regrets at his inability 
to inform his excellency. The Americans had not taken 
him into their confidence. They had gone to Desenzano. 
That much he knew, because they had bought tickets 
for that place and had had their trunks put on the 
steamer. But beyond Desenzano it was impossible for 
him to speak. They might have gone on to Venice or 

( 238 ) 


THE FLIGHT TO SIENA 


239 


to Milan, more likely the latter, for August was not the 
♦ season for Venice while it was possible for travelers to 
go to Milan with the intention of starting thence for 
Switzerland. 

This suggestion afforded the Count but little comfort. 
A million people might be going to Switzerland in 
August; by visiting all the hotels and resorts in the little 
republic he might accidentally find this particular Ameri¬ 
can family, but he had neither time nor money to pursue 
so vague a chase. Why had not the padrone found 
out where the Americans were going? 

“The Signore Americane did not honor me with their 
confidences,” replied Grimaldi, with a sorrowful look. “I 
am sorry, your Excellency, but it is so. They did not 
tell me, I did not ask them and so I do not know.” 

“What has become of the Countess Chianti,” asked 
Volpi, after ten minutes of angry maledictions. “Has 
she also disappeared? I suppose everybody has gone 
—everybody has abandoned me. Why don’t you speak, 
brigand? Where is the Countess?” 

“Her Excellency has not yet come to breakfast,” 
answered Grimaldi, humbly. An American hotel keeper 
would never stand such bullying; he feels himself any 
ordinary man’s equal; in fact, many hotel clerks in the 
States wear dazzling diamonds and look down upon the 
generality of mankind. But Italian or Swiss inn-keep¬ 
ers resent nothing unless it be failure to pay bills. You 
may abuse a European padrone to your heart’s content 
and still be treated with obsequious politeness as long 
as you pay your score. Volpi grumbled and scowled 
and ordered Grimaldi to inform Her Excellency, the 
Countess Chianti, that he wished to see her immediately; 
then he went out to his breakfast in the garden. In 
half an hour the Countess came to him with her big 
red silk parasol and her bow-legged dog. 

“Do you know what has happened?” said the Count 
ignoring her amiable greeting. He spoke in Italian, as 
was his custom when talking to his cousin’s wife. 

“No, I have heard nothing in particular,” replied the 


240 


THE FLIGHT TO SIENA 


Countess. “1 have just had my breakfast/' She dropped 
the point of her parasol on the ground and looked at 
Volpi inquiringly. 

“The American signorina has gone, Luigi Caroll has 
gone, everybody has gone while we were sleeping!” 

“Where have they gone?” 

“Diavolo! That is what I want to know and what 
you must find out. In another week I should have won 
that American signorina. She is like all the rest—wants 
a little coaxing. I must find her. I won’t give her up. 
She is the only pretty and rich girl I know, but she 
is coquettish—she plays with me. I woo her—she runs! 
Have you no idea where they went? Did they not talk 
to you of their plans?” 

“Oh, often,” answered the innocent Countess. “Mrs. 
Barton said she loved Riva, that she wanted to stay here 
until they went to Milan where Miss Clara will study 
music. Something must have happened to change her 
plans.” 

Volpi sullenly smoked his cigar; the Countess amused 
herself tracing figures on the ground with the tip of 
her parasol. Presently Grimaldi came out and told Volpi 
in a low voice, with an air of mystery, that he had just 
learned of a letter which might possibly be of interest 
to His Excellency. The letter was addressed to Mr. 
Rhett Calhoun and had been left by the American sig- 
norinas at the hotel to be delivered when called for. 

“How the d-1 does that interest us?” demanded 

Volpi, snappishly. 

“This Signor Calhoun, your Excellency, is a friend 
of the American. Her letter will doubtless give him 
her new address.” 

Volpi was quick to see that this shrewd guess of the 
padrone was probably the correct one. At any rate it 
would not hurt should that letter be delivered to him, 
Count Volpi, instead of to Rhett Calhoun; a coin slipped 
into the padrone’s hand resulted in the coveted missive 
being placed in his possession. Grace’s letter was brief. 
She merely expressed her pleasure at hearing from her 



THE FLIGHT TO SIENA 


241 


old friend, and hoped he would find it possible to come 
to Siena whither she and her mother and sister were 
going—“at once for very urgent reasons.” “Ah, Siena,” 
muttered the Count. “So that is where the bird has 
flown. Well, the hunter can go there too.” 

The next morning found the Count on the way to 
Siena; on the same afternoon Rhett and Gassaway ar¬ 
rived with clothing worn and travel-stained but otherwise 
none the worse for their long tramp through Tyrol. 

Though buoyant as air when they entered the town, 
Rhett Calhoun’s spirits fell to zero when told that the 
Bartons were gone. “She must have received my letter 
before going,” he thought, gloomily, “and if she received 
it she must have gone to avoid me. Why else should 
they rush off just as I am expected? Very well! If 
they wish to dodge me, they shall have no trouble in 
doing it. I’ll keep as far from them as they can desire.” 

In the course of the day, Rhett learned from the Count¬ 
ess Chianti that a letter had been left for him at the 
hotel, but the most diligent and persistent inquiry of the 
padrone failed to produce any letter. “De Countess 
Chianti say dere ees letter for you? Ah! Den de Count¬ 
ess Chianti one gran’ mistake haf made. De signorina 
American haf left only one letter—dat letter haf already 
gone to Ingfeterra.” 

The Countess Chianti, who had gathered some inkling 
of the truth from Volpi, did not believe a word of this 
statement of the padrone’s, but poor Rhett thought of 
Lord Apohaqui and said to himself: “No, there was 
no letter for me; the Countess is mistaken. I shall go 
back to America and try to forget her.” Then when, 
on the same unlucky day, Mrs. Packer and her 
daughter Lobelia and maid arrived in Riva from Munich 
and told him among other things, that Lord Apohaqui’s 
engagement to Miss Barton had been announced in 
London and that she had heard it direct from Mr. 
Montrose Morton, who had run back to England on a 
few days’ business, Rhett’s soul sank into still deeper 
gloom. The Packers had gone to Munich from London, 


242 


THE FLIGHT TO SIENA 


thence they had crossed the mountains to Tyrol and 
thus accidentally stumbled across Rhett and Gassaway 
in Riva. 

Love seems to have a more resisting kind of life than 
the body; once knock the body dead and it stays dead. 
No medicines, charms or conjurations revivify a dead 
body; but Love—bless you! It may lie perfectly breath¬ 
less one minute, and the next minute it leaps up into 
vigorous life! There was an experience of this sort 
vouchsafed our friend Rhett. His love lay dead, he 
bade it farewell forever and went about with a heart like 
lead, until one morning a blue envelope was handed him 
containing the following telegram: 

“Siena, August 23rd:—We are at the Albergo di 
Siena. If possible join us at once. Grace Barton.” 

It was these few words which, quick as a flash, resus¬ 
citated the hope which had fainted and died in Rhett’s 
breast; the dead hope sprang to life, to eager, inspiring 
life. The horizon expanded, the heavens became more 
beautiful and blue, an electric current seemed to course 
through the young man’s veins. She—she, the one 
woman in the world —had not tried to shun him; he 
would go to her at once he would—but curse the English 
Lord! Could it be true that he was engaged to her? 

“Well,” said Gassaway, after reading the telegram, 
“this knocks me out of the pointers I might have secured 
while playing the detective and hunting over Europe 
for the Bartons. There is no chance now for the old 
sleuth detective act.” 

“Hang your sleuth detective act. We’ll set out at 
once for Siena.” 

“Siena?” remarked Mrs. Packer. “That’s the very 
place Lobelia and I mean to go to.” 

The two young men showed no particular elation at 
this, but Mrs. Packer continued, serenely: “Siena is 
quite a show place, isn’t it?” 

“On the contrary,” returned Rhett, “I am told it is 
rather out of the tourists’ usual route—not at all fashion- 


THE FLIGHT TO SIENA 


243 


able. The Bartons are stopping there to have a good 
rest I suppose.” 

“That’s exactly what Lobelia and I need. We’ve 
been on the go so much we must take a rest and I guess 
Siena’s the very place to rest in until Mr. Morton comes 
back from London. Lobelia, dear, tell the maid to put 
up our things. We’ll go on the same boat with Mr. 
Calhoun and Mr. Gassaway. It’s so comfortable to have 
gentlemen along to protect us.” 

There had been a time when the Packers treated both 
Rhett and Gassaway with fine Chicago scorn, but that 
was before the affair of Lord Bunger; it was also before 
Mr. Morton had left them and before they had come 
to the continent where they could not understand a word 
of what was said around them. They were more con¬ 
descending now. Of course, they would not stoop so 
far as to travel second class; but while they rode in state 
in the first class car it was some comfort to know that 
there was somebody on the train with whom they could 
talk English in case of an emergency. Mrs. Packer 
was good enough to explain these reasons for her 
patronizing kindness, but it is doubtful if either Rhett 
or Gassaway appreciated them. However, what could 
they do? They could not prevent the Packers from 
going to Italy and thus it was that the two young Ameri¬ 
cans and the Chicagoans took the same train for Siena. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

MR. WOOKEY’s SOCIAL AMBITION. 

“Out of sight, out of mind/’ according to the popular 
adage, but this does not always prove true. After the 
Bartons’ departure, each day that passed seemed to in¬ 
crease Lord Apohaqui’s desire to see Grace and his 
determination not to give her up. The more he re¬ 
flected, the more he congratulated himself on having 
found that unusual combination, youth, beauty and 
fortune. The faults of bad form, of American manners 
shrunk in size until it almost seemed that those very 
faults had grown into charming qualities. For the first 
few days after the girl left London, Lord Apohaqui 
honestly endeavored to forget her; he told himself it 
would be a misfortune to be at war with his mother 
and from what Lady Apohaqui had said he knew there 
would be war if he refused to give up the American. 

Lady Apohaqui was not altogether blind to the strug¬ 
gle going on in her son’s mind. With a desire to help 
him forget Grace Barton she looked about to find some 
suitable English girl whom her son could marry. Mar¬ 
riage, thought the Dowager, would be the safest cure; 
it was unfortunate that no girl in the aristocracy could 
be found available; but young ladies possessed of both 
wealth and rank are not anxious to wed a penniless 
Lord, consequently Lady Apohaqui was driven to con¬ 
sider wealthy English girls who were not of noble blood. 
Her son could take his pick from among half a dozen 
rich commoners’ daughters, and that at any rate would 
be better than to marry this American. Even the most 
vulgar English tradesman’s daughter would have sense 
enough to keep out of Whitechapel and out of jail. As 
for wealth, there were any number of English merchants 
who had as much money as this eccentric American. 


( 244 ) 


MR. WOOKEY’S SOCIAL AMBITION 


245 


There was old Wookey, the vinegar king; he had a 
daughter and a handsome one too. 

It will be remembered that Mr. Alonzo Wookey was 
admitted to membership in the Victoria Club in conse¬ 
quence of divers loans to Lord Apohaqui and other 
titled members of that aristocratic, Piccadilly resort. The 
young noblemen who gave their “I. O. U.s” in exchange 
for Mr. Wookey’s checks on a Lombard Street Bank 
felt a hardly-concealed contempt for the vinegar king’s 
son, and said to themselves, “A fool and his money are 
soon parted.” They altogether failed to understand the 
purpose toward which their plebeian “friend” steadily 
moved. This purpose was to push himself and his sister 
into fashionable society and to get her, and to get him¬ 
self, married to nobility. Thus far Mr. Alonzo Wookey 
had failed to induce Lord Apohaqui to introduce him 
to any of his mother’s noble acquaintances. While the 
Bartons were in London, Lord Apohaqui was so atten¬ 
tive to Grace that Wookey gave up the project of using 
the Lord as a social lever and contented himself with 
the prospect of getting his money back as soon as Lord 
Apohaqui was safely married to the American heiress. 
When the Bartons suddenly left London, Wookey con¬ 
cluded the match was off and renewed his attentions 
to his debtor. One morning he called on the young 
nobleman with an unusually solemn face. 

“You seem a bit seedy, Wookey. Is anything the 
matter?” inquired Lord Apohaqui. 

“Yes, a great deal is the matter,” grumbled Wookey. 
“No fellow likes to be put off for all eternity. Those 
I. O. U.s of yours are getting mildewed. I must 
say, Apohaqui, that I expected you to do something 
before this. You said you would, you know.” 

“Hang it all! I thought you agreed to let things go 
until I—I—” 

Lord Apohaqui’s face flushed; since he had come to 
know the heiress by whose money he hoped to extricate 
himself from financial ruin it was sorely against his grain 
to speak of her in a mercenary way. 


246 


MR. WOOKEY’S SOCIAL AMBITION 


“Until you married the American heiress,” said 
Wookey, finishing the sentence for him. “Well, yes; 
I did consent to wait until that happy event, but since 
the lady’s cut and run it don’t look well for my money, 
now does it?” 

Lord Apohaqui could have murdered his undersized 
creditor; this reference to the one woman who now 
filled his heart and thoughts was gall and wormwood 
to his pride as well as to his better feelings. Yet what 
could he say? Had not he himself licensed freedom of 
speech on this topic? True, that had been before he 
knew Miss Barton, before any but mercenary desires 
had come into play, nevertheless he had licensed Wookey 
to speak as lie did, therefore, irritating as his words were, 
they had to be borne. 

For a moment, however, he made no reply; a frown 
contracted his brow, he sat silent, staring at the figures 
in the Persian rug on the floor. Wookey, who was eye¬ 
ing him, became convinced that his conjecture was cor¬ 
rect, that the match was off and his debtor at sea with 
no port in sight. In truth, the real object of Mr. 
Wookey’s visit was to discover the exact state of affairs 
regarding the American heiress; he had not come with 
any hope of getting his money; money was not what 
Mr. Wookey wanted. What he really did want, and 
what he now fancied there was a hope of obtaining, 
since Lord Apohaqui was in deeper water than ever 
before, was social success. When satisfied, from Lord 
Apohaqui’s words and manner and from the fact that 
the Bartons had left England, that the American alliance 
was not to come off, Mr. Wookey resolved to act with 
energy and forestall any new plans his debtor might 
have in view. His first move was to seek an interview 
w r ith Lady Apohaqui on Great Barrington Square. Mr. 
Wookey might not have inherited his father’s talent for 
making money, but he had inherited at least a portion 
of his father’s blunt ways in matters of business. His 
visit to Lady Apohaqui was strictly on business and he 
did not mean to beat about the b*tsh. “She may cut 


MR. WOOKEY’S SOCIAL AMBITION 


247 


up awful/’ he said to himself before entering the apart¬ 
ments of Great Barrington Square, “they say she’s 
blooming proud, but she cawnt eat me, and I’ll tell her 
what I’ve got to say or my name ain’t Alonzo Wookey.” 

And tell her he did with a directness that excited 
Lady Apohaqui’s astonishment. “It’s in reference to 
your son’s finances,” said Mr. Wookey, when Lady 
Apohaqui asked to what she was indebted for his call. 
“Your son owes me a goodish bit of money, and he 
don’t seem an inch nearer paying it now than he did 
when he first borrowed it.” 

“Why do you come to me about this matter?” said 
the Dowager, coldly. 

“Most ladies,” returned Wookey, eyeing her closely, 
“don’t like to see their only son sold out under the 
hammer; now do they, Lady Apohaqui? I put it to your 
ladyship. Do they?” 

“Whether they do or not,” replied the Dowager, 
haughtily, “is not to the point. I have no money to 
pay Lord Apohaqui’s debts. You may rest assured of 
that.” With this the mother of the young peer bent 
her head in dismissal with such an air of insolent pride 
that Mr. Wookey winced. 

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” he said, hastily. 
“Your ladyship don’t clearly understand. I do not ask 
you to pay your son’s debts in money!” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just what I say, your ladyship, not in money.” 

“In what other way can debts be paid, sir?” was the 
curt answer. 

“If your ladyship will listen to reason we can settle 
his lordship’s debts satisfactorily to all parties.” 

“Proceed,” said Lady Apohaqui, while her son’s credi¬ 
tor paused as if to feel his ground. 

“It’s just this way,” proceeded Mr. Wookey, warming 
up to his subject. “Me and my sister Malvina were left 
pretty well fixed. Our Governor never had no opinion 
of giving boys more than girls, so it was share and share 
alike, and not a small share for each of us as may be 


248 


MR. WOO KEY’S SOCIAL AMBITION 


your ladyship may know through the papers. The 
papers reported it all when the Governor died.” 

“This does not concern me in the least,” interrupted 
Lady Apohaqui. 

“Begging your ladyship’s pardon,” continued Mr. 
Wookey, “I’m coming to the part that concerns your 
ladyship. Me and Malvina have got everything we 
want except one. What you’ve got, me and Malvina 
haven’t got, and what we’ve got, you and Lord Apoha¬ 
qui haven’t got. What I don’t see, my lady, is why 
we can’t trade around so we’ll all have everything we 
want?” 

This singular statement quite confused Lady Apo- 
haqui’s mind; she began to' fear her son’s creditor was 
not altogether sane. Mr. Wookey, after eyeing the 
lady to see the effect of his communication resumed: 

“To put it plainly, your ladyship, and not to beat about 
the bush, which is contrary to business and common 
sense, it is just this: you and your son have high society 
but you haven’t got money; me and Malvina have got 
all the money we want but we haven’t got high society. 
Turn about’s fair play. Lord Apohaqui agreed to pay 
me my money as soon as he married the American, but 
now that that’s off, where is the money to come from? 
That’s what his lordship can’t tell me. Now, my sister 
Malvina’s a finer young woman any day than that Ameri¬ 
can girl and has double, yes, more than double, her pile 
of money. Now what I say, my lady, is just this, why 
can’t your son and Malvina hit it off? That would make 
everything plain and smooth, a deal plainer and smoother 
than Lord Apohaqui’d ever get it by marryin’ that 
American heiress.” 

Lady Apohaqui’s first feeling was that she was insulted 
—grossly insulted, but her ladyship was not given to 
yielding to first impulses, and as Wookey progressed 
with his scheme she reflected that after all it might be 
worth investigating; at any rate there was no need to 
burn any bridge, no matter how poor a bridge it might 
appear. So in the end, Mr. Wookey was informed that 


MR. WOOKEY’S SOCIAL AMBITION 


249 


she would consider his proposition and communicate 
with him in the course of a few days. 

Soon after this interview, Lord Apohaqui received a 
note from his mother requesting him to. dine with her 
on Thursday evening “to meet a person who might 
prove financially valuable to him”. “What the deuce 
can she mean?” mused the Lord, who preferred dining 
at his club to dining at his mother’s, a fact of which 
Lady Apohaqui was well aware, hence her care to arouse 
her son’s curiosity and to assure against a declination 
of her invitation. The ruse was successful, and on Thurs¬ 
day at eight Lord Apohaqui found himself at his 
mother’s place on Great Barrington Square. In the 
drawing-room were Mr. Craven, a clergyman, Mrs. 
Broughton, the Rector’s sister, Lord and Lady Leland, 
his mother’s second cousins, poor as church mice, and 
Lady Defreese Critten. Lady Defreese Critten was the 
only one of his mother’s guests who had money, but 
she was notorious for her close-fistedness. What did 
Lady Apohaqui mean by getting together such people 
as these to help him out of his financial troubles? The 
parson and his sister helped men’s souls, not their pocket- 
books, while as for his mother’s cousins, the Lelands, 
they didn’t have, the two of them together, £500 a year. 
At the first opportunity Lord Apohaqui uttered some¬ 
thing of these sentiments to his mother. 

“Charles,” replied the Dowager, “you are too im¬ 
patient. I have asked these people merely to meet the 
person who' is in a position and who may be willing to 
help you. She will be here soon; she should be here 
now.” 

“So it is a woman who is to help me?” 

“Yes, a woman, young, good-looking, rich—and 
English. You know our class is willing to forgive a 
man for stooping to marry, providing the woman he 
stoops to get has money enough; but society despises 
a nobleman who condescends to marry a girl who is at 
once poor and socially his inferior.” 

“Mother, Miss Barton is not poor.” 


250 


MR. WOOKEY’S SOCIAL AMBITION 


“She is not rich enough to justify you in stooping, 
was the prompt reply, “while the young girl you will 
meet to-night is. Moreover, she is very good-looking. 

I strongly advise you to give yourself a chance to know 
her and see if you cannot like her enough to marry her.” 

“Who is she?” 

“Malvina Wookey.” 

“What! Alonzo’s sister? He is little better than a 
fool,” muttered Lord Apohaqui, frowningly. . 

“You won’t marry the brother; besides I did not find 
Mr. Wookey to be a fool. He is what Americans call 
‘long-headed’. My opinion is that when he loaned you 
money he had it in his mind to bring you and his sister 
together. He is socially ambitious.” 

Lord Apohaqui agreed to “look at” the Wookey girl, 
but in his secret heart he felt that he could not bring 
himself to think seriously of her. He had not yet been 
able to banish the American girl from his thoughts. 

Miss Wookey was unlike her brother in person, be¬ 
ing rather stout, possessing a fresh, rosy color, a merry 
eye and joyous nature. Mr. Wookey kept his eye on 
his sister and the young nobleman and seeing them 
laughing and chatting freely together fancied his plans 
were progressing finely. 

“First thing you know, Vina,” he said triumphantly, 
as they drove away from Great Barrington Square, 
“you’ll be a real downright lady—a peeress of the realm.” 

“You get out!” laughed his sister. 

Nevertheless, Miss Malvina Wookey dreamed of Lord 
Apohaqui at night, and in her waking hours she built 
more than one castle in Spain. She and Alonzo were 
children of a man who had walked penniless into Lon¬ 
don, yet who had left them very, very rich; it was a 
triumph for the children of such a man to rest their feet 
under the mahogany table of the ancient Apohaqui fam¬ 
ily, and beyond this, Alonzo and his sister saw a long 
vista of mahogany tables belonging to other ancient 
families. The dinner at Lady Apohaqui’s was only an 
entering wedge which would result in their being in- 




























































































































































































































MR. WOOKEY’S SOCIAL AMBITION 


251 


vited to the most exclusive houses in London, even if 
it did not result in a marriage between Lord Apohaqui 
and Malvina. 

The reflections of Lord Apohaqui after that dinner at 
his mother’s in Great Barrington Square were hardly 
as pleasant as were the reflections of the Wookeys; on 
the contrary the more he thought of Miss Wookey’s loud 
laugh and big red cheeks the more his heart yearned 
for Grace Barton; and at length he wrote her the letter 
saying he wished to go to Riva to ask an important 
question. This message, as the reader knows, was re¬ 
ceived just as the Bartons were starting for Siena. 
Grace’s answer, written on the lake steamer and mailed 
at Desenzano, awoke the young lord for the first time 
to the fact that there was not only the question whether 
he would marry Miss Barton; there was also the question, 
would Miss Barton marry him? Grace did not in so 
many words say that she would not marry him, it was 
clear, however, that her answer might bear that con¬ 
struction. Her letter was as follows: 

Riva in the Tyrol, August 20th. 

Lord Apohaqui:—Your letter reaches me just as we 
are leaving Riva for Italy. Of course, as much as we 
all should like to see you, we cannot expect you, now 
that we are going so far away; and, indeed, as far as 
answering important questions is concerned, I think I 
should ask you not to come even were we to remain in 
Riva. I am not good at answering questions,—at any 
rate I am sure that, as for the questions you hint at, my 
answers would not be worth coming to Riva to get. 

If you are fond enough of travel, of cathedrals, of 
monasteries and mountain scenery to induce you to come 
to Siena—whither mamma, Clara and I are going—we 
shall be glad to see you. But I pray you, do not trouble 
to come for the mere purpose of propounding questions. 

I write this hurriedly on the Lake Garda boat, and 
shall post it at Desenzano—in time I hope, to prevent 
your making a fruitless journey. Mamma and Clara 


252 


MR. WOOKEY’S SOCIAL AMBITION 


join me in kind regards to you and to Lady Apohaqui. 

Very sincerely, 

GRACE BARTON.” 

There had been a time when Miss Barton’s money 
had been to Lord Apohaqui her only attraction, but 
that time had passed, and as *the train carried him on 
to Italy the young Englishman was as deeply in love 
with Miss Barton as Romeo was with Juliet. 

He was on his way to Siena, and, in spite of Grace’s 
letter, had decided to ask the question he had intended 
asking at Riva. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

COUNT VOLPl’s COUP D’ETAT. 

The second day after the Bartons’ arrival in Siena 
Louis Caroll ran over to Florence to secure a model 
for one of the figures of his great painting, the “Tide 
of Time”. Mrs. Barton and Clara were enjoying one 
of their “rests”, and Grace and Agnes decided to walk 
out to the city’s northern gate for a view of the Tuscan 
plain at sunset. The approach from the railway station 
just without Siena’s northern gate is up a steep and 
winding road. While Grace and Agnes were on the 
heights near the gate the train from Milan came in; ten 
minutes later the two girls recognized Count Volpi lean¬ 
ing back in one of the cabs that were coming up the 
steep road into the city. They remained only long 
enough to make sure it was the Count, then hurried 
back to the Albergo with their news. 

“Oh, if Louis hadn’t gone!” cried Clara, who had 
the feeling that Caroll could protect them from any evil. 

“I don’t see how Mr. Caroll could help me,” laughed 
Grace. “I can’t expect your particular possession to 
remain by my side and protect me from the Count.” 

“Louis, could order the Count to leave you alone.” 

“Thad would hardly do. Louis and the Count are 
friends. He must not insult him.” 

“But it is dreadful to have our trip spoiled in this 
way. Grace, can’t you make the man understand that 
you never, never, never will marry him?” 

“I think,” murmured Mrs. Barton, looking up from 
her novel, “if the Count is going to follow us about 
this way we had better go back to Alabama. If he 
follows us there, he’ll be sure to get into some hotel as 
waiter—they all do—and then they know how* to be¬ 
have. That Count in Talladega never went about try- 


( 253 ) 


254 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


ing to make young ladies marry him. He did his work 
like a man.” 

“Oh, mamma!” cried Clara, “we must not go home 
until we see Rome. Louis says Rome is wonderful and 
—and—Louis’ great picture is in Rome.” 

“Moreover,” said Grace, “Clara’s voice has to be culti¬ 
vated. No, mamma, the Count shall not drive us out 
of Italy. How do you reckon he learned that we came 
to Siena?” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Clara, “he saw Rhett and got 
our address from him.” 

“No,” returned Grace. “I cautioned Rhett not to give 
our address to any one. Perhaps—Clara, I wonder if 
that horrible Italian Count got hold of my letter to 
Rhett? It is singular Rhett does neither come nor write. 
I’ll telegraph him right away.” 

As the reader knows, Grace’s message was wired and 
duly received, much to the joy of the young man. After 
sending the telegram Grace declared her intention of 
going the next day to the old Benedictine Monastery 
about fifteen miles from Siena. Mrs. Barton and Clara 
decided not to take the journey; they were tired; more¬ 
over it would be well for them to remain in Siena to 
keep an eye on Volpi. 

Early next morning, Grace and Agnes set out in a 
carriage for the Monastery arranging to return before 
dark; by this course Grace hoped not only to see an 
ancient and interesting spot but also, for that one day 
at least, to escape Volpi’s unpleasant attentions. 

“If the Count calls, mamma,” warned Grace, “don’t 
tell him where I have gone.” 

“What shall I say?” asked Mrs. Barton. 

“Say I am sick. That won’t be untrue, mamma, I 
am sick unto death of him.” 

But poor Mrs. Barton was incapable of deceiving, and 
when Volpi called the following morning, an hour or 
two after Grace and Agnes had departed, he had little 
trouble in learning that the elder daughter was off on a 
jaunt to the Benedictine Monastery. 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


2l>5 


“Oh, madam!” he cried, when at last he got the secret 
from Mrs. Barton, “it.ees most culpayable! So young 
a signorina, no chaperone! It ees most dangerous!” 

“Agnes is with her,” urged Mrs. Barton, “and every¬ 
body tells me there are no brigands in Italy now.” 

“It ees not dat de brigands harm de yoorig signorina, 
it ees dat de Societee eemagine harm. De noble Societee 
of dis country not permit de yoong signorina go out 
alone, no chaperone, no madre, no padre!” 

“Don’t worry about that, Count!” said Mrs. Barton, 
placidly. “Only real brigands with pistols can terrify 
Grace. She knows how to protect herself from impudent 
men.” 

“De bold vat you call villain man,” said Clara, imi¬ 
tating Volpi’s pronunciation, “had better not annoy 
Grace. She has her little gun, and the villain man might 
be sorry he ever saw her.” 

When the Count took leave of Mrs. Barton it was 
with supreme contempt for that lady. She was a fool, 
a pig, an idiot to let her young daughter take a fifteen 
mile ride up a mountain with only a young woman 
chaperone. Volpi told himself that Mrs. Barton de¬ 
served to lose her daughter; as to the daughter, she 
needed a master, and he resolved that he, Count Marto 
Volpi, would be that master and see to it that in future 
she behaved herself as became a lady! Under the stimu¬ 
lating influence of these reflections the Count’s brain 
conceived a bold coup d’etat—a Napoleonic stratagem 
—which would tumble the heiress into his power for 
the rest of her life. The young woman might possibly 
make a little outcry, try a little opposition to his plan, 
but what of that? Apart from her foolish coyness there 
was, of course, no doubt that she was willing to marry 
him. No American girl in her right senses could per¬ 
manently refuse a man of his personal attractions and 
noble name. He had heard much of the unruly spirit 
of American women—but should that deter him? Had 
not his cousin, Count Chianti, reduced his American 
wife to the docility of a kitten? 


256 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


The road from Siena to the Benedictine Monastery 
goes down the south side of the mountain to Buon 
Convento; thence it turns to the northeast and winds up 
another mountain that rises like a precipitous cone out 
of the Tuscan plain. The main road after passing the 
village of Buon Convento leads south to San Quirico 
and unless the traveler is posted, he is apt to keep on 
this road and overlook the lesser highway that leads 
northeast up to the ancient monastery. Grace’s driver 
was, of course, familiar with both roads, consequently 
Volpi knew that there was no prospect of her going to 
San Quirico unless he, Volpi, could contrive to bring 
such a mistake about, and it was this very mistake which 
he meant should be made. He felt that if he could have 
five minutes’ private talk with Miss Barton’s driver before 
they started up the mountain to the monastery he could 
induce the Jehu to take the San Quirico road instead 
of the one leading to the monastery. How to get that 
five minutes’ interview was the question which for a 
moment puzzled the Count’s subtle Italian mind. 

The entire distance from Siena to Buon Convento is 
down so steep a grade that vehicles are obliged to make 
the descent at a snail’s pace; but even so, was it not 
likely that Miss Barton had already reached Buon Con¬ 
vento? Her carriage had started two hours ago; in two 
hours one can make even the descent from Siena; never¬ 
theless Volpi thought there was a chance for him to 
intercept the fair traveler. On reaching Buon Convento 
it is customary for pilgrims to stop at the wayside Tra- 
toria for refreshments, before commencing the steep 
ascent of the Monastery mountain. Might not half an 
hour’s delay be counted on at the village Tratoria? If 
so, and if there was any way by which he could make 
in half an hour the journey down the mountain which 
Miss Barton’s carriage had taken two hours to make 
there was a possibility of his seeing her before she left 
Buon Convento; that is, there was a possibility of inter¬ 
viewing the driver and laying the train for his coup d’etat! 

There was no way of making a horse accomplish that 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


257 


steep descent in thirty minutes, but where flesh and blood 
dare not go, steel and rubber in the shape of the modern 
bicycle may safely venture. Count Volpi was a mem¬ 
ber of the Roman Wheel Club; the bicycle was then 
the fad in Italy and no large town was without its wheel 
club. Volpi lost few minutes in securing a bicycle and 
within less than a quarter of an hour after leaving Mrs. 
Barton he was speeding towards Siena’s southern gate. 

! It was a long and splendid coast; the road was smooth, 
the grade steep. Volpi’s curly black hair streamed in 
the wind as he shot like a flash down the mountain 
slope. A horse or a buggy going at such a pace would 
have been dashed to pieces, but the bicycle whirls along 
safe as long as the machine does not break or the rider 
does not lose his presence of mind. In twenty-five 
minutes from the moment he shot through Siena’s gate 
the Count rolled in to Buon Convento’s one narrow, 
crooked street. A smile of triumph glittered in his beau¬ 
tiful dark eyes as he perceived the carriage in front of 
the village Tratoria. The Jehu was watering his horses, 
but at a signal from Volpi he lost no time in repairing 
to one of the dingy rooms of the inn. For five minutes 
the two men were engaged in earnest conversation; then 
Count Volpi with his usual elegant grace of manner, 
sauntered into the main room of the Tratoria just as 
Miss Barton and Agnes were rising from the table. “Ah, 
Dio mio! I have thought you nevaire to see again! 
Ees it possible I behold de lofely signorina Barton once 
more?” 

“Did you drop from the skies, Count?” asked Grace, 
both vexed and surprised. She surmised at once that 
the Count had trapped her mother into betraying her 
plan for visiting the Benedictine Monastery. 

“I not fall from de skies, what you call de heavens,” 
replied the Count with an adoring look. “No, I come 
from below into de heaven of de lofely signorina’s so¬ 
ciety,” elucidating his rather mixed metaphor by signifi¬ 
cant looks and gestures. “Ah!” he continued, “vat 
rapture! Vat happiness! I haf not hope so soon to 


258 


COUNT VOLPTS COUP D’ETAT 


see you. You disappear so sudden, de sun go out, night 
come. But, ecco! I see de signorina and de night ees 
ovaire.” 

There had been a time when this sort of stuff, accom¬ 
panied as it was by impassioned looks and actions, would 
have amused Grace; not so now. The Count’s heroics 
had become stale, flat and uncomfortable. 

“Pray, excuse us, Count,” said Grace curtly. “We 
have a long trip ahead of us.” 

Volpi placed his hand over his heart, made a profound 
bow and gave Grace a sad reproachful look as she passed 
out of the room. This was so much better than the 
girls expected that they felt elated at such an easy rid¬ 
dance of the Count. 

“I hope,” exclaimed Grace, as they drove away, “the 
poor Count is at last convinced that I am not anxious 
to become an Italian Countess. I wonder if he really 
did come to Siena on business?” 

“His sole business,” said Agnes, “is to see you. He 
means to follow you. That is my opinion.” 

“But you saw how easily he let us off?” 

“He is on a bicycle. He thought that that dash down 
the mountain to get one word with you would strike 
you as heroic. The Count has a theatrical turn of mind. 
He may intend to ride on to the Monastery.” 

“Even then he cannot annoy us—bicycles and car¬ 
riages do not go very well together, and when we reach 
the Monastery the reverend old Monks will suppress 
him.” The road continued to ascend, but the grade was 
not nearly as steep as Grace had been led to expect. 
It seemed, too, that they were going a great distance 
without seeing the Monastery. They questioned the 
driver; his answer was a shower of unintelligible Italian. 
“I fear he does not know the way,” said Grace, anxiously. 
“The padrone in Siena said it would take only three 
hours to make the trip.” 

“Yes, but we lost time in Buon Convento,” said Agnes. 

After gazing in every direction and seeing no signs 
of the Monastery Grace became seriously disturbed. “I 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


259 


do not like the idea of being out on this lonely road 
at night, we had better turn back, Agnes.” 

“Perhaps it would be best,” said her companion. “The 
afternoon is already half over.” Orders were given to 
return to Siena, whereupon the Jehu stood up in his 
box and jabbered Italian so fast the girls could not 
understand a word of what he said, but from the ener¬ 
getic way in which he pointed ahead they concluded 
he meant to inform them that the monastery was not far 
off. “If that is so, we may as well go on,” said Grace. 
“Videte il monastprio? Do you see the monastery?” 

“Si, si! Yes, yes!” replied the Jehu, with a satisfied 
grin, “Monasterio,” pointing up the road. So the girls 
permitted him. to drive on for a while, but when fifteen 
minutes had elapsed and there was still no sign of the 
Benedictine Monastery Grace gave peremptory orders to 
return to Siena. The coachman was as voluble as before, 
but this time Grace was firm; she shook her head, pointed 
back towards Siena and made the driver understand that 
she did not wish to go another step forward. “Aloro— 
bene! All right,” he said when he saw that further re¬ 
monstrance was in vain. Then he leaped to the ground, 
went around behind the carriage, fumbled at the wheels 
and springs and straps; then, remounted his box and 
started back towards Siena. The road was very narrow 
and in making the short turn necessary to get the horses 
headed in the right direction it seemed as if one of the 
springs broke. At any rate, there was a sudden creaking 
and cracking sound, the next moment one of the wheels 
was wrenched off and the carriage came tumbling to 
the ground. No one was hurt, but the surprise gave 
a nervous shock to the two girls, who by this time, were 
extremely uneasy and anxious to get home as fast as 
possible. The Jehu with shrill cries rushed to the car¬ 
riage door; Grace and Agnes were both very pale, and 
vague suspicions added to their alarm—suspicions of 
the driver. Had he caused this curious collapse? If 
so, what was his motive? They looked up and down 
the road; not a soul in sight. The driver danced around 


260 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


the ruins of his carriage, pulled at the wheels, the straps, 
the pins, all the while jabbering in the most excited 
manner; tearing his hair and wringing his hands as if 
overwhelmed with grief and dismay at the disaster. 

“I see nothing for us to do,” said Grace, “but to walk 
on. We must be more than twenty miles from Siena. 
Possibly we may be able to get a conveyance on the 
road.” 

They were still debating what course to pursue and 
looking disconsolately at the wreck of their carriage, 
when they saw in the distance a figure on a bicycle slowly 
ascending the slope. “I never thought,” said Grace, 
“that I could be glad to see the Count, but I am. He 
may be able to tell us where to get a conveyance.” 

As soon as he reached the forlorn group, Volpi leaped 
from his wheel with profuse bows and exclamations. 
“Dio mio! Vat haf happened? Vat haf hurt your car¬ 
riage? You haf say you go to de monastery. Vat for 
you on dis road?” 

“Is not this the road to the Monastery?” asked Grace. 

“Dio mio! No, signorina! Dis ees de road to San 
Quirico. Dis very spot is not more than one kilometer 
from San Quirico. Haf you not tell de driver to go to 
San Quirico?” 

“Certainly not. He knew we wanted to go to the 
Monastery.- The Albergo padrone in Siena told him.” 

“Ah, den he haf one grand meestake made! I vill 
gif him one talk. It ees vaire culpayable to make de 
grand meestake!” 

Turning to the driver, Volpi talked very fast and ap¬ 
parently very angrily; the Jehu danced about, gesticu¬ 
lated wildly, rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. 
Grace and Agnes could only catch a word here and a 
word there; their knowledge of Italian was so limited 
that unless one spoke slowly they understood nothing; 
but the pantomine told them that the Count was violently 
scolding and the driver trying to exculpate himself. 
“He say he vaire sorry!” said Volpi, turning to Grace 
after ten minutes of pyrotechnical Italian conversation 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


261 


with the coachman. “He ees vaire sorry he meestake 
de signorina’s direction. I haf told him he shall be 
prosecute, put in prison. He ees vaire culpayable, vaire.” 

“Count, can we get a vehicle anywhere about here?” 
asked Grace. 

“Dio mio! I not know. We walk on to San Quirico. 
Maybe one carriage ees dere but I fear me vaire mooch. 
San Quirico ees one town vaire small. In Italy de town 
small haf no carriage.” 

“No matter if we find only a market cart,” said Grace, 
“it will be better than nothing. Mamma will be miser¬ 
able if we don’t get back to-night!” 

They walked on to the Albergo in San Quirico, where 
Volpi ordered a room and refreshments. The two girls 
accepted the refreshments, but declined the room. “If 
there is no cab to be had,” said Grace, “perhaps we may 
hire horses. Be so good, Count, as to see if horses or 
donkeys or something can be had to take us home to¬ 
night!” 

Volpi withdrew and for ten or fifteen minutes the 
girls heard sounds of animated voices in the inn’s kitchen. 
Then the Count came to them with an air of deep regret, 
and said that there was not a horse or donkey in San 
Quirico. “We can ride the horses that brought our 
carriage,” said Grace. “Agnes and I will ride one horse. 
A guide can ride the other. Please see about it, Count. 
Mamma will be so wretched until she sees us.” 

The Count again went out and again the girls heard 
loud and rapid- talking in the kitchen; and then again 
the Count returned more sorrowful than before; this 
time there were tears in his eyes and voice as he cried, 
“Dad meeserable man haf gone! He haf taken de 
houses. No one can tell where he go to find de bladk- 
smit de carriage to mend.” 

The vague suspicions that had crept into Grace’s mind 
took more definite shape; was Volpi in league with the 
driver? If so, what could be his motive? Not robbery 
—surely, he must know that she had neither money 
nor jewels with her. Could he intend personal violence? 


262 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


Whatever his motive, all show of resentment, of suspicion 
must be concealed. “Well, Count,” said Grace, with a 
smile, “if we cannot go we must stay. We will take a 
room and make ourselves comfortable.” 

Volpi was radiant; no sooner had Agnes gone in 
search for a room than he declared in his most melliflu¬ 
ous manner that “eel luck of de carriage was de good 
luck to him; it haf bring him de heavenly society of de 
lofely signorina.” In pursuit of her plan of wariness 
and apparent gratitude for his attentions in their di¬ 
lemma, Grace listened politely to Volpi’s rapturous flow 
of words, all of which so encouraged him that he went 
beyond the limit he had originally laid down and fol¬ 
lowed up his declaration of eternal love by falling on 
his knees and imploring her hand in marriage. 

“Rise, Count,” said Grace, with dignity. “This is no 
time or place to talk of marriage. Besides, I shall never 
marry without consulting my mother.” 

“De signora mamma,” said Volpi, complacently, ris¬ 
ing and brushing the dust from his knees with his white 
handkerchief, “de signora mamma weel not refuse her 
consent when she know de signorina daughter is fatally 
compromised.” 

“Compromised? How is that?” asked Grace. 

“You haf stay one night alone wid me at dis little 
Albergo. Dat fatally compromise de yoong signorina.” 

“Compromised? That is dreadful, Count. Do you 
mean to say that you would be willing to marry a woman 
so horribly compromised?” 

“My lofe is so big, so volcanic—I lay it wid my life 
and title and everyting at your feet!” 

“Such generosity,” replied Grace, gravely, “deserves 
its reward, but explain, Count, what you mean by com¬ 
promise. What is its effect?” 

“It ees vaire deesastrous tor de signorina to be com¬ 
promised. In Italia it vat you call ruin de signorina 
except she repair de compromise by one marriage wid 
de signore she haf compromised wid. Dat ees de social 
law in Italia.” 


COUNT VOLPI’S COUP D’ETAT 


263 


“I see, Count, it is a very serious matter. You must 
explain all this to mamma. Meanwhile I am tired and 
beg you to excuse me. Agnes doubtless had my room 
ready by now. If anything occurs I hope you will be 
good enough to have them call me.” 

“Yees, I will, signorina, I vill you wid my life defend, 
vat you call guard. Addio. Buona notte!” 

“She ees mine!” exclaimed the Count as soon as 
Grace retired. “I speak to< de signora mamma in de 
morning. She moost gif her to me to heal de com¬ 
promise! Dio mio! Ees it not grand? I pay my debts, 
I haf a goot income—always money to spend—eet ees 
grand!” 

When Grace entered her room she found Agnes ac¬ 
companied by a stout, honest-faced peasant girl, daughter 
of a farmer living a mile away in the campagna. The 
father owned a donkey. Agnes brought the girl to Grace 
with the idea of having her ride her father’s donkey to 
Siena and deliver a note to Mrs. Barton. “Would you 
like to earn fifty lire?” asked Grace, in a whisper. 

The girl’s eyes sparkled; of course, she would like 
to earn fifty lire. That was more than she ordinarily 
earned in half a year. “Very well,” said Grace. “Ride 
with this note at once to Siena, to the Albergo di Buona 
Sera—my mother and sister are there. They will hire 
a carriage and return with you to San Quirico. Be 
diligent and faithful and you shall have a hundred lire 
instead of fifty!” 

It was no little trouble to get all this into the girl’s 
head, but her eyes showed quickness, and her eagerness 
for the money sharpened her wits; moreover, Grace and 
Agnes reinforced their smattering of Italian by excellent 
pantomime so that at length the girl understood and 
softly set forth on her mission. Tucked away securely 
in the bosom of her cottage gown was the following 
note, addressed to Mrs. Barton: 

“Albergo, San Quirico, Thursday 4 P. M. 

Dearest MotherAgnes and I are detained at this 


264 


COUNT VOL PI’S COUP D’ETAT 


place by our carriage breaking down. You and Clara 
must get a man-servant from the Albergo and come to 
us at once. We are in no danger, but there is no way 
to get back to Siena until you bring a carriage, so come 
at once. The bearer will show you the way. 

Lovingly, 

GRACE. 

Agnes threw herself on the bed and fell fast asleep. 
Grace was still filled with vague fears and could not 
sleep. Her distrust of the Count was now absolute. 
She no longer doubted that the whole carriage catas¬ 
trophe was his work. What a fool he was to suppose 
that any fear of Italian “compromise” would drive her 
or her mother into giving a favorable answer to his 
suit! Was it possible the Count meditated other co¬ 
ercive measures? Grace locked her door, and, sitting 
down by the window, looked out over the hills toward 
Radicafine perched high on its mountairf top. The slow 
hours went by, night settled upon that quiet Italian 
village, but Grace dared not close her eyes. The slight¬ 
est noise startled her. True, she had a small pistol to 
use in the event of a terrible emergency, but a woman 
like Grace Barton will endure much before using a deadly 
weapon. A clock in the big kitchen tolled the hours; 
Grace wearily counted them—nine—ten—eleven—mid¬ 
night, then one—two—. She counted no further. Her 
head laid itself down to rest on the window sill; the 
next she knew she was roused by a clatter of wheels 
on the stony street and by thundering knocks on the 
door! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO. 

It was seven o’clock in the evening when the train 
from Desenzano entered the Siena station. Rhett had 
not seen much of Mrs. Packer and Miss Lobelia on 
the journey; once at Bologna, and again at Florence, 
while the train waited, he had left his compartment to 
take a peep into the first-class coach and ask Mrs. 
Packer if he could be of service. Mrs. Packer graciously 
informed him that they were getting along nicely and 
felt satisfied in merely knowing they had male protectors 
on the train. When they arrived at Siena, Rhett looked 
after their luggage and helped both ladies into the car¬ 
riage which conveyed them to the Albergo. He and 
Gassaway took the cheaper method of walking. Both 
young men were in buoyant spirits. They called on the 
Barton ladies as soon as they had enjoyed the luxury 
of a bath and a change of linen. 

Clara joyously ran down to see them. If there was 
any young woman to whom at that time this world ap¬ 
peared a paradise that young woman was Miss Clara 
Barton. She was in the very first raptures of a first love, 
all the earth seemed lovely!—the heavens divine!—the 
future roseate! “Why were you so slow in coming to 
us?” she questioned. “We thought you would come 
right on, but, instead of you, that tiresome Count Volpi 
followed us. And Grace made us run from Riva on 
purpose to escape him! What on earth were you doing 
so long in Riva, Mr. Rhett?” 

“We started almost the very moment we learned where 
you were. Why did you not leave word at the Albergo?” 

“We were dodging the Count. We told no one, not 
even the little Countess Chianti. But Grace did leave 
a letter for you giving our address.” 

( 265 ) 


266 


AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO 


“Her letter didn’t come,” said Gassaway. “And Rhett 
became as gloomy as a thunder-cloud. He fancied you 
were running away from us.” 

“Fancied we were running away from you?” exclaimed 
Clara. “How absurd!” 

“The letter never reached me,” said Rhett. 

“Then I believe that tricky Count managed to get 
it! When he came to Siena, Grace suspected he had 
been up to some sort of mischief and telegraphed you 
to come.” 

“Is the Count in Siena?” asked Gassaway. 

“Yes. He called this morning. Luckily, Grace was 
gone.” 

“Gone?” gasped Rhett. 

“Only for to-day. She and Agnes went to explore 
an old Benedictine Monastery. They’ll be back by eight 
o’clock. Grace went mainly to keep out of Count Volpi’s 
way.” 

“Zounds!” exclaimed Gassaway. “It’s come to a 
pretty pass when an American lady is run from place 
to place by a garlicky Italian Count. It won’t do; it’s 
enough to make a stuffed bird laugh to see the impu¬ 
dence of these foreigners. We must teach this Italian 
how to behave toward American girls.” 

Rhett and Gassaway called a cab and drove through 
Siena’s southern gate, down the mountain, to meet Grace 
Barton. They met peasants coming up from the cam- 
pagna on foot, on donkeys and in carts, but there was no 
carriage, no sign of Grace and Agnes. Night fell, still 
Rhett and Gassaway drove on. Occasionally they heard 
the jingling of bells and the creaking of wheels, but on 
stopping their cab and peering through the darkness 
they saw only some poor woman driving an ass loaded 
with fagots or a peasant in his cart; then they hurried 
on, Rhett’s anxiety constantly increasing. At last they 
reached Buon Convento, where they stopped to make 
inquiries. Rhett had a colloquial knowledge of Italian, 
and was not long in learning from the village padrone 
that the two Inglese had not gone to the Monastery at 


AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO 


267 


all, that they had taken the road to San Quirico. Was 
he certain of this? “Dio mio!” exclaimed the padrone, 
with many gestures and shrugs of the shoulders, “as 
certain as that the Blessed Virgin can save sinners!” 
There were not so many Inglese about but that he could 
keep an eye on those who passed his way., He had 
taken particular notice of the signorinas because one of 
them was so extraordinarily beautiful, and because she 
was as good and as amiable as she was beautiful. She 
had been very friendly to his daughter; had asked her 
questions and given her a present for her trousseau. The 
two signorinas had eaten lunch and then driven off on 
the San Quirico road. 

“Has their carriage returned this way?” 

“No, signor.” 

“Were the signorine Inglese alone?” 

“Si, signor, quite alone except for the driver.” 

“Has any one been here to inquire about them?” 

“No, signor, but while the two signorine Inglese were 
here a fine, handsome signor came, an Italian who knew 
the language of the Inglese. He talked much with the 
beautiful signorina.” 

“By the eternal, the Count!” cried Gassaway. 

“It looks that way,” said Rhett, frowning darkly, and 
then resuming his examination of the padrone. “Did 
this Italian signor go away with the two signorine Ing¬ 
lese?” 

“No, signor. The Italian signor was on a velocipede.” 

“In which direction did he go after leaving Buon 
Convento?” 

“To the South toward San Quirico.” 

“Ah, in the same direction the signorine were driven?” 

“Si, si, signor, but not with the signorine. The signor 
Italino started some hours later than the signorine.” 

The two young men pushed on. “I feel,” said Rhett, 
“as if I could twist that Count’s neck. I could do it 
as easily as I could stamp on a snake!” 

“Take care, my Hear boy,” said Gassaway, cheerfully, 
“take care and steer clear of Italian law. I shouldn’t 


2C8 


AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO 


like to see you landed in one of those dreadful Island 
prisons. Besides, there’s no need to be uneasy; Miss 
Grace is a girl in a thousand! She’ll know how to 
deal with that little dancing aristocrat. It’s my opinion 
Miss Grace is a match for a full dozen Italian Counts 
with a duke or two thrown into the bargain.” 

When they drove into San Quirico a few minutes after 
midnight their horse was jaded and worn and the driver 
declared he could go no further, even though offered 
all the money in America; for the Inglese he would do 
anything in reason, but to go further that night was 
impossible; his horse was broken' down. 

“If they are not here,” said Rhett, to his friend, “we 
will pusli on, cab or no cab. We cannot remain quiet.” 

“I’ll stand by you, my boy,” cried Gassaway, cheer¬ 
fully. “I’ll keep up with you to the end—although I 
have that confidence in Miss Grace that my mind is 
quite at ease about her—quite!” 

During this colloquy the Jehu pounded on the Albergo 
door; after a while a head appeared in the second story 
window and a voice called out through the darkness: 
“The devil take you and your noise! What do you 
mean by waking honest Christians at this hour of the 
night?” 

“We who stand outside your door are as good Chris¬ 
tians as any who ever stood within it,” replied the Jehu, 
hotly. “Make haste, mutton-head, and let us in. Here 
are two Inglese from Siena.” 

Rhett jumped from the cab. “Are two English ladies 
here?” he asked. 

“Diavolo, yes! Two signorine Inglese are here in 
bed as all good Christians should be,” said the padrone ; 
his irritation was much modified by the Jehu’s announce¬ 
ment that his “fares” were Inglese. Italian hotel doors 
are always open to Inglese—by which is meant Ameri¬ 
cans as well as English. Both nations are thought to 
be the geese which lay golden eggs for Continental inn-* 
keepers. They prefer to pluck the geese at reasonable 
hours, but they are willing to pluck them at one o’clock 


AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO 


269 


in the morning rather than lose a chance to pluck them 
at all. Unfastening the chain and drawing the bolt of 
the solid oak door, the padrone of the San Quirico 
Albergo conducted Rhett and Gassaway into the big 
room that served as kitchen, dining-room and lobby of 
the village inn. There, in reply to Rhett’s eager ques¬ 
tions, the padrone told how an accident had occurred 
to the signorine’s carriage, how the signorine had come 
to the Albergo on foot, escorted by his excellency, Count 
Marto Volpi, and how they were all now comfortably 
sleeping in their apartments. 

“I don’t trust this fellow,” said Rhett to Gassaway. 
“I shall not feel satisfied until I have seen Grace with 
my own eyes and know that she is safe and well. 
Padrone, you must take us to the signorine’s apart¬ 
ments.” 

“Come volete—as you like!” said the padrone, shrug¬ 
ging his shoulders and picking up his candle. The 
Inglesi were a strange people. If it was their custom 
to arouse young ladies in the middle of the night it was 
none of his business; they could do as they pleased; he 
conducted Rhett and Gassaway to the room in which 
the two girls were resting. 

“Who is there?” cried Grace starting from the sleep 
into which she had sunk, fully dressed, her head on 
the window sill. 

“It is I, Rhett Calhoun, with Green Gassaway. Are 
you safe? We must see for ourselves.” 

“Is it really you?” returned Grace. “Speak again that 
I may know your voice.” 

“Zounds! Miss Grace!” cried Gassaway, jovially, 
“don’t hurt our feelings by mistaking us for these danc¬ 
ing Italian dagos. Let us get a peep at your face to be 
certain you’re really safe and alive; then we’ll lie down 
here and sleep before your door and defy a regiment of 
brigands to get at you!” 

The door was unlocked and partly opened. “I can’t 
let you in,” said Grace, “Agnes is in bed, but you are 
welcome, oh! you can’t imagine how welcome you are! 


270 


AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO 


We felt out of the world up here in this lonely place, 
and mamma—I hope she is not miserable about us?”. 

The two young men were unable to satisfy her mind 
on this point, but they encouraged her to remember 
that it was not long before day and that they would re¬ 
turn to Siena as early in the morning as possible. 

Toward day, there was another hubbub in the narrow 
street in front of the Albergo, and springing to her feet 
and looking out of the window, Grace cried: “Is that 
you, mamma?” 

“Yes. And Louis and I are here. What has hap¬ 
pened? Are you all right?” This voice was Clara’s. 

Grace flew down stairs and was in her mother’s arms 
the moment the door was opened. “Dear, dear 
mamma!” she murmured. “I am so sorry you had so 
much worry. I’ll never leave you again, never, never!” 

“You may well say that,” laughed Clara. “Mamma 
is determined to start for Alabama to-morrow. She 
won’t stay in a country where you are always getting 
shut up in jails and places.” 

“But I am not shut up, mamma. The carriage broke 
down. You know, mamma, a carnage might break down 
in Alabama as well as in Italy.” 

“But they don’t—not that way,” returned Mrs. Bar¬ 
ton. “I can’t stand it any longer, Grace. It’s breaking 
me down worse than the carriage.” 

Notwithstanding Mrs. Barton’s placidity, her face 
showed that fatigue and anxiety had told upon her. 
Grace tenderly led her mother up stairs, where she made 
her lie down and rest during what remained of the night. 

It was high noon the next day before the little party 
assembled at breakfast in the Albergo’s kitchen. Louis 
Caroll was so bold in his love-making that he claimed 
the seat next to Clara’s, and was caught by Mr. Gassa- 
way’s eagle eye in the very act of surreptitiously pressing 
her hand under the table. Rhett and Grace sat side by 
side, but nothing so audacious could be charged against 
them. The padrone’s wife had cooked an enormous 
omelet and a pot of muddy liquid which she called coffee. 


AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO 


271 


“I can’t drink it,” moaned Mrs. Barton pathetically, 
as she eyed the suspicious mixture, “and after all I’ve 
undergone I know I’ll have a dreadful headache if I 
miss my cup of coffee.” 

“You shall not miss it, madam,” cried Mr. Gassaway, 
jumping up. “Of course, nobody in this garlicky country 
knows how to make coffee, but I know. The author 
of the G. A. N. must know everything. Just wait a mo¬ 
ment, ladies. I’ll brew you the best cup of coffee you 
ever tasted.” 

Taking the pot to the window, Mr. Gassaway poured 
its contents out into the street; then returned to the 
amazed padrone’s wife and asked for an egg and a 
supply of coffee. Then he walked over to the huge 
chimney under whose mantel in rural Italy, all culinary 
operations are performed, and began brewing the coffee 
which was to prevent Mrs. Barton’s headache. The 
coffee was not the best Java or Mocha and no doubt 
was well mixed with chicory; nevertheless Mr. Gassa- 
way’s efforts were pronounced successful. Mrs. Barton 
took two cups and said it tasted quite like Alabama 
coffee. Mr. Gassaway was as pleased as if she had com¬ 
plimented a chapter of the G. A. N. “I say, Miss Grace, 
he cried, as he attacked the omelet, “you don’t seem 
to miss your faithful friend, the Count? Didn’t^you ex¬ 
pect him to breakfast with you this morning?” 

“What has become of him?” 

“Ah, that’s my secret,” cried Gassaway, shoveling into 
his mouth another section of omelet. “I had an inter¬ 
view with the Count early this morning. He had. a 
bedraggled look; his feathers drooped. I struck him 
square between the eyes by asking if he hadn t put that 
Jehu up to wrecking Miss Barton’s carriage! By the 
Eternal! You ought to have seen his Countship shake. 
He jabbered so fast I couldn’t understand a word he said; 
then he mounted his bicycle and scudded away. The 
last I saw of him he was fairly flying along on the road 
to Siena.” 

At this moment a note was handed to Grace by the 


272 


AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO . 


padrone. “It is from the Count,” she said smiling. “He 
writes better English than he speaks.” 

“Zounds!” exclaimed Gassaway. “Has the Count had 
the cheek to write to you, Miss Grace, when he is the 
very fellow who got you into all this trouble ?” 

“What does the Count say, Grace,” asked Clara. 

Grace read Volpi’s letter aloud: 

“Adorable Signorina:—Your friends haf arrive so I 
not longer remain. I haf you always proteck wid my 
life; your honor I am now ready to proteck wid my 
sword. I haf de deelight to go seek de vaire culpayable 
coachman. I prosecute him to de jail. When I return 
to Siena I haf de honor to see your amiable mamma 
and deemand her of de hand of her lovely daughter.” 

“Do you call that an improvement on the Count’s 
talking English?” asked Gassaway grinning. 

“A very decided improvement,” answered Grace. 
“You see the word ‘lovely’ is spelled correctly. The 
Count always pronounces it as if it were spelled ‘lofely’.” 

“What does he mean by defending your honor?” asked 
Rhett, frowning. “Who dares assail your honor?” 

Grace had a suspicion as to what the Count meant, 
but at that moment she did not care to give informa¬ 
tion concerning the “compromise” scheme. 

“Don’t you think,” she replied carelessly, “that this 
is merely a piece of the Count’s grandiloquence?” 

“May I read his note?” said Rhett, still frowning. 

“Certainly. His chirography is very neat,” replied 
Grace, pushing the note across the table. The young 
man read it carefully, the frown on his brow deepening 
as he read. 

“No,” he said slowly, putting his finger on the line 
about “defending her honor with his sword,” this is 
not mere idle grandiloquence. An idea is at.the bottom 
of this boast. I would like to twist it out of his insolent 
head!” 

^ “That would be hardly worth the while,” said Grace. 
“I don’t think the Count has a single idea worth that 
much trouble.” 


AT MIDNIGHT IN SAN QUIRICO 


273 


After the several excitements of the night they were 
so late in arising—and they lingered so long over Mr. 
Gassaway’s coffee—that it was almost noon before they 
set forth for Siena. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES. 

It was ten o’clock Tuesday night when Mrs.. Barton 
received Grace’s note and set out for San Quirico; and 
when Lord Apohaqui reached Siena on the afternoon 
train Wednesday none of the party had returned.. The 
padrone of the Siena Albergo was voluble and obliging, 
but his intellect was poor; moreover, he possessed little 
information. One of the signorine Inglese had started 
with her maid early Tuesday morning in a carriage for 
the Benedictine Monastery. A message had come from 
her late Tuesday night and her mother and sister and a 
signor Americano, the fiance of one of the signorine 
Barton, had at once ordered a carriage and started for 
San Quirico, a village twenty-five miles to the south on 
the high road to Rome. 

The padrone’s remark about the signorina’s fiance 
gave Lord Apohaqui a start—which one of the sisters 
had gone to San Quirico? And which one had remained 
to greet her fiance? Who was the fiance? And how 
did the padrone know this gentleman to be Miss Bar¬ 
ton’s fiance? 

These questions the padrone could not satisfactorily 
answer. He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes 
—love was not a thing to need words to tell its story; 
the American signor had been in Siena before his de¬ 
parture for Florence; the padrone had seen the signor 
and signorina together—was not that sufficient? It cer¬ 
tainly was sufficient to make Lord Apohaqui uncom¬ 
fortable and unhappy, but he did not despair. The 
padrone might be mistaken; even were he not mistaken, 
Miss Clara Barton might be the signorina referred to. 
At any rate, he would not falter in putting into execu¬ 
tion the purpose that had brought him from England. 


(2?4) 






































* 


















% 




t 









LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES 


275 


He asked the padrone when the Americans would re¬ 
turn, but to this question there was no satisfactory 
answer; that they would return some time the padrone 
was certain because they had left their luggage in his 
Albergo. 

The whole state of affairs struck Lord Apohaqui as 
singular; he could not imagine why the Bartons should 
suddenly leave Siena in the middle of the night to go 
to a village twenty-five miles away; nor could he imag¬ 
ine why Miss Barton had landed in San Quirico when 
she had set out in exactly the opposite direction. In 
his perplexity the young nobleman continued to ply the 
padrone with questions, and at length the wearied 
Italian besought himself of the Packers. “There were 
other signore Inglese in the Albergo; they could inform 
his excellency of all things, they were friends of the 
signora Barton.” “Who are the other Signore Inglese?” 
asked the lord. When told that they were the Packers 
he sent his card up and presently found himself in the 
Chicago ladies’ private parlors where, as soon as greet¬ 
ings and exclamations of surprise at meeting in Siena 
were over, he asked questions about the Bartons. 

“Do I know anything about the Bartons?” said Mrs. 
Packer, secretly delighted at the opportunity to ventilate 
her opinion of that very reprehensible family. “Well, 
I can’t say I know much, my lord. They ain’t the sort 
of people to go in the high-up society in Chicago, and 
Lobelia and me don’t have much to do with people who 
ain’t in high-up society. Of course we don’t quarrel 
or nothin’ like that. We are polite when we meet but 
that’s about all.” 

“Thank you, madam,” said Lord Apohaqui, with 
difficulty subduing his impatience. “I wish to know if 
you could tell me the cause of Mrs. Barton’s setting out 
in the night to meet her daughter who had left in the 
morning?” 

“Goodness gracious!” cried Mrs. Packer, lifting her 
hands in surprise. “You don’t tell me that Barton girl 
has gone and got herself into another scrape? But 


27G 


LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES 


nothing she can do would astonish me. Only yesterday 
my maid was saying that the oldest Miss Barton is 
mighty thick with the Eyetalian Count. I guess that 
girl’s up to an elopement and her mother has gone to 
head off the marriage!” 

At this stage of the interview, Miss Lobelia came in 
and Mrs. Packer hastened to inform her daughter that 
the Barton girl had run off with the “Eyetalian” Count 
and that Mrs. Barton and Miss Clara Barton had rushed 
off in the middle of the night to catch the elopers. “Oh, 
that’s stale, ma,” said Miss Lobelia. “My maid heard 
that last night. The Count and Miss Barton disappeared 
almost at the same minute, but her stupid mother never 
suspected what was going on until near midnight; then 
she hired a carriage and started after them. The Count 
had it all arranged at Riva. Her mother run Miss Bar¬ 
ton off from Riva to get her away from the Count, but 
the girl sent him a telegram to meet her here.” 

“I don’t blame the girl half as much as I do her fool¬ 
ish mother,” said Mrs. Packer, complacently. “She sits 
day in and day out with a novel in her hands and lets 
her girls run around wild, no chaperone nor nothing. 
I never let Lobelia run around like that. I believe in 
English ways, my lord. I always like a chaperone to 
be about.” 

Lord Apohaqui, much puzzled by this confused ac¬ 
count of the Bartons, was a prey to dismal reflections 
as he left the Albergo and strolled toward the city’s 
southern gate. Was it possible he had so mistaken this 
girl’s character? Was it possible she could be so infatu¬ 
ated with this impecunious Italian Count? Disconcerted, 
discomforted, desolate, he walked along, hating the sight 
of men and women. He passed through the Roman 
gate and along the road. She had passed this same 
way only a few hours ago. Would she ever come that 
way again? Had she really ruined her life and blighted 
his by a rash, a fatal step? When wearied with walk¬ 
ing Lord Apohaqui stretched himself on a grassy bank 
by the wayside and gave himself up to melancholy mus- 


LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES 


277 


ings. The sound of voices made him spring to his feet 
—Miss Barton and Rhett Calhoun were almost upon 
him. . “Lord Apohaqui,” exclaimed Grace, going up and 
greeting the young Englishman cordially, “this is, in¬ 
deed, a surprise! When did you arrive? We thought 
you were in England, and lo ! a turn in the road and we 
see you calmly reclining on a bank of daisies in Italy.” 

Rhett also gave the Englishman a courteous greet¬ 
ing. Although secretly hating each other, the two young 
men were outwardly friendly, so much has civilization 
accomplished. The civilized man is ashamed of his 
jealousy and seeks to hide it no matter how its fangs 
gnaw his heart. Grace explained that her mother and 
sister were coming in the carriage; and that she and 
Mr. Calhoun had left it a mile or so back to lighten the 
poor horses’ pull up the mountain. “And the Count— 
where is he?” asked the lord. 

“The Count?” queried Grace. 

“Yes, I was told that you and Count Volpi were 
married.” 

“Really?”. 

“I do not jest on such topics,” replied the Englishman, 
gravely. 

“Of course not—no gentleman would. But it seems 
too ridiculous. Who spread such a report about me?” 

“Your countrywomen, Mrs. and Miss Packer.” 

“Were mamma here,” laughed Grace, “she would re¬ 
sent the idea of the Packers being countrywomen of 
ours. Chicago is as far from Alabama as London is 
from Rome, although, I dare say there are plenty of 
very nice people in the Windy City. I trust, my lord,” 
—this was added seriously—-“I trust you know me too 
well to believe so foolish a story, no matter who told it.” 

“No, I do not think I really did believe it, though it 
annoyed me to hear it.” 

“I think,” said Rhett, a tone of anger in his voice, 
“that those Packer women are malicious. I hope, Miss 
Grace, you will be able to keep clear of them during the 
balance of your stay in Europe.” 


278 


LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES 


“I won’t say they are malicious,” said Grace, “but 
they are a—a little peculiar. Mamma set them against 
us when we were on the Etruria. Mamma is so impru¬ 
dent when talking about the South that she often offends 
northern ladies.” 

Grace looked back every minute or two to see if the 
carriage was in sight. Feeling a little uneasy lest some 
accident might have happened, she asked Rhett to go 
back and see what had become of the party. She and 
Lord Apohaqui would wait for them there at the bend 
in the road. Rhqtt’s long, swinging stride quickly 
carried him out of sight down the mountain. No sooner 
was he gone than Miss Barton was sorry she had sent 
him. Something in the young lord’s eyes told her she 
had been imprudent and would regret it. She was seated 
on the stone parapet overlooking the picturesque moun¬ 
tain slope and valley, but her companion had no eyes 
for scenery. Feeling that she must make some effort 
to avert what she feared was impending, the girl talked 
on rapidly; she plainly saw, however, that Lord Apo¬ 
haqui was not listening. His own feelings mastered him 
at the moment and he heard not a word Grace uttered. 
“You know why I have come to Italy,” he finally said 
in a rather stern voice. 

Grace knew the crisis was upon her—there was no 
escape; she must nerve herself for the ordeal. If there 
is one thing more painful than another to a girl of true 
and delicate feeling it is to have a man pour out his 
passion to her when she is averse to it. The first weapon 
the woman seizes under such circumstances is a subter¬ 
fuge. She tries to find refuge in a pretended ignorance 
of what is meant—it is so terrible to be obliged to re¬ 
pulse a man’s soul, his nobler being. It was true that 
Grace, for some time after their acquaintance began, 
had not given Lord Apohaqui credit for any genuine 
feeling; she had good reason to believe that he was 
influenced solely by mercenary motives; but of late this 
view had weakened and she had come to suspect that 
the young lord’s interest in her was both deep and sin- 


LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES 


279 


cere. The more this belief gained upon her the more 
difficult it was to refuse what he asked for. She could 
not boldly fly from him, but she might manage to let 
him see that his suit was hopeless without saying so 
in words. With this idea Grace lightly replied to his 
eager, impassioned words: “Of course, I know why 
you came to Italy,” she said, “at any rate I think I can 
guess. It is not difficult to guess why one visits this 
beautiful land of blue skies and ruins and romances.” 

“Miss Barton,” interrupted the lord, “do not meet 
earnestness with levity. It is unworthy of you.” 

“I beg your pardon,” she said, contritely. “I will not.” 

“You know all this,” with a waive of his hand toward 
the lovely panorama stretched out beneath them, “all 
this is nothing—nothing to me! You know—you can¬ 
not but know that you are the world to me. I have 
come to Italy because I am miserable away from you. 
I have come to ask you to give yourself to me, to tell 
you that if you will accept me as your husband my life’s 
object shall be to make your happiness perfect-” 

“I am sorry, I am grieved by what you say. My letter 
was intended to save you this—this disappointment. 
You received it?” 

“Yes, I received it; I understood its purpose, but you 
have taken such possession of me that I could not yield 
without a further effort. Oh, if you only knew how I 
love you!” 

“I beg you to cease—it is useless.” 

“I never,” he continued, white, agitated and not seem¬ 
ing to hear her, “I never thought I could love a mortal 
being as I do you. I have known many women, but 
you alone seem to me altogether lovely.” 

“I beg you to say no more. When I answered your 
letter I hoped to save you and to save myself the pain 
of this interview.” 

“You—you hate me, then?” he asked, something of 
anguish in his eyes and voice. 

“Hate? No indeed, I do not hate you; but there is 
a wide, wide space between hate and love.” 



280 


LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES 


“What is it, then? Indifference? If that is all I shall 
not cease to hope. Indifference may be overcome. I 
will not give up. To abandon you is almost to abandon 
life itself. All will be lost—” 

“No, not all, not your life, only your time and—and 
expectations,” said Grace. The next instant she was 
ready to bite her tongue for the unkind taunt. An 
eager, questioning, reproachful look was in the eyes 
Lord Apohaqui fixed upon her. 

“What does that mean?” he asked with dry lips. “Do 
—do you doubt the honesty, the sincerity of my love?” 

“I—have doubted it,” she admitted, reluctantly. 

“Then you despise me. A nature like yours must 
despise deceit, trickery, false pretenses. Is it so? Do 
you despise me for a—a—” He hesitated, unwilling to 
use the odious term “fortune-hunter.” 

“My lord,” said Grace, gravely, “shall I be perfectly 
frank with you, even though frankness be displeasing?” 

“Though it cuts to the heart, have no concealments. 
I, too, despise deception. Proceed.” 

“When first we knew each other, and for some time 
thereafter,” she said in a low tone, “I had reason to 
believe your attentions to—to our family were entirely 
of a business character.” 

The young lord winced at the word and turned a shade 
paler. “Go on,” he said, biting his lips. 

“The agent of the Cunard Line is a native of our 
State. He is an old friend of my father’s. He wrote 
to mamma of—of—certain inquiries you made. For 
a while this letter was lost on its way, but it came to 
us at last.” 

“Ah—no wonder you despise me! No wonder you 
hate me! Wretch that I was!” He bowed his head and 
for a moment seemed overcome by the bitterness of 
his feelings. The action, the attitude appealed to the 
girl’s heart and evoked her strongest sympathy. What¬ 
ever she had thought she was convinced that his present 
emotions were sincere. 

“No,” she said, gently, “I neither despise nor hate 


LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES 


281 


you, Lord Apohaqui. We are creatures of our environ¬ 
ments. Your environments have been so different from 
mine. The class to which you belong thinks it right 
to seek money in marriage. The public sentiment of the 
people with whom I was reared condemns money mar¬ 
riages. With us love alone makes marriage sacred. It 
is different with you. Your kings and queens, and 
princes and noblemen ‘arrange’ marriages where rank 
and wealth agree. Nor do I blame you for assuming 
that every American woman with wealth is ready and 
anxious to trade her money for a title. Too many of 
my countrywomen show this anxiety, but with me it 
does not exist. I am strongly imbued with democratic 
principles. I want no legal title to give me superiority 
over others. A woman with my opinions on these 
matters would be out of place among your people. This 

_did no other reason exist—would be sufficient to forbid 

a marriage between us.” , 

Lord Apohaqui lifted his head proudly; *his face was 
white and showed the violence of the emotions his soul 
experienced. Never had he appeared to better advantage 
in the American girl’s eyes. 

“You are right,” he said. “You and I are the out¬ 
growth of different civilizations. Yours is the truer, the 
nobler, because the more just. I admit it, although it 
brings to me the bitterest disappointment a man can 
feel. It is true that love, and only love, can make mar¬ 
riage sacred. I am the victim of my station. When 
family estates are encumbered, when money is wanted 
to rebuild ruined castles, the heir of a moneyless noble¬ 
man is expected to marry money. The opinion of his 
class demands this of him. It is noblesse oblige to main¬ 
tain the position of his family. My father was a spend¬ 
thrift. From my earliest boyhood I was taught that 
it was my duty to make a wealthy matrimonial alliance. 

“With us, a youth would have been taught that it 
was his duty to rebuild the family fortune by labor, 
with us, labor is honorable; with your class it is dis¬ 
honorable. This is the fundamental difference between 
us.” 


282 


LORD APOHAQUI PROPOSES 


“Labor? Ah, yes, but how? For generations noble¬ 
men have lived without labor—” 

“Therefore it is easier for them to marry money than 
to make it?” 

“Yes. But strange and difficult as labor would be to 
me, I swear to you I would gladly labor—I would go 
to the wildest west and begin life anew, could I be 
buoyed by the hope that some day you would be mine.” 
He looked at her eagerly, beseechingly. 

“That can never be,” she said. “Pray give it up. 
Remember how unsuitable our union would be—how 
extremely hazardous.” 

“I will gladly take the hazard.” 

“No, no, forget it. It can never be.” 

“If you tell me it is impossible for you to love me, 
that I am personally hateful to you, I will give it up— 
I will indeed despair.” 

“What if—if I prefer another?” asked Grace, softly, 
a rosy red flashing over her lovely face. 

“That?” groaned Lord Apohaqui. “Ah, yes, if that 
be so, madly as I love you, I resign you. Though at 
first it was the thought of your wealth that moved me, 
you know—you cannot but know—how all this has long 
since faded from my mind; how now you, and you.alone, 
fill it! But if your heart is another’s, though your dowry 
were a queen’s, I would give you up. Is it indeed so? 
Does that impassable gulf divide us?” 

“Lord Apohaqui, believe me, it can never be as you 
wish. Let us part friends. If I have caused you aught 
of pain and disappointment, forgive me. The carriage 
is coming. I will go to meet them.” 

But before she went, she reached out her hand to 
the saddened young man. He touched it with his lips. 
“You have caused me pain—pain and disappointment, 
oh so bitter! But there is nothing to forgive. The 
fault is entirely mine. Good-bye, good-bye, and God 
bless you!” Then he turned and after looking for a 
moment over the parapet down upon the Tuscan plain, 
he started slowly back toward Siena. 


CHAPTER XXVII, 


CONCLUSION. 

On the evening following their return from San 
Quirico as Mrs. Barton and Agnes sat on a bench in 
the Siena garden, Mrs. Barton reading Crawford’s “Paul 
Patoff”, Count Marto Volpi approached, smiling sweetly 
and looking handsomer than ever before. His dark 
locks waved in the breeze, his picturesque mustache 
beautifully shaded his soft and perfect lips, his poetic 
eyes beamed with triumphant love—at any rate, that 
was the way the beam struck Mr. Gassaway, who sat on 
a bench not far away, fanning himself under the shade 
of an orange tree. 

Mrs. Barton was in the middle of her novel and was 
impatient to read on and learn what became of Paul 
Patoff’s brother. “The Count is coming, madam,” said 
Agnes in a whisper. 

“Oh, dear!” sighed Mrs. Barton, “I nope he won’t 
bother us long.” At that moment, Mrs. Barton preferred 
Paul Patoff’s society to that of any Count in Italy. 

Volpi made a graceful obeisance before the ladies. 

“Good evening,” returned Mrs. Barton, carefully keep¬ 
ing her thumb on the page she was reading. 

“It ees a lofely evening,” said the Count with a radiant 
smile. “A—vat de poets would nominate de paradise.” 

“It is very nice,” said Mrs. Barton, with a longing 
glance at “Paul Patoff”. 

“Haf I de happiness to find de amiable signora in de 
goot health dis evening?” asked the Count with genial 
solicitude. 

“I am pretty well, thank you,” returned Mrs. Barton, 
wondering why the young man should stand there smil¬ 
ing and bowing. But Count Volpi was in no hurry 
to go. After a few more polite inquiries as to Mrs. 

( 283 ) 


284 


CONCLUSION 


Barton’s general welfare and as to whether she was en¬ 
joying the scenery, Count Volpi made another graceful 
reverence and said: “I haf come to say dat I haf de 
honaire and de happiness to ask for de hand of your 
lofely filia—vat you call girl, de signorina Gracia!” 

Mrs. Barton, whose mind was wholly engrossed by the 
troubles of the Patoff family, and who was impatient to 
get back to her novel, did not catch the drift of Volpi’s 
meaning. “Agnes,” she said with the hope of turning 
the Count over to her companion, “you can understand 
the Count better than I, you must talk to him.” 

“Madam,” replied Agnes, in a low voice, “the Count 
asks for your daughter Grace.” 

“Tell him Grace is not here. She has gone walking 
with Rhett.” 

“Madam, he does not ask to see Miss Grace; he wants 
you to give her to him.” 

“Give him Grace?” said Mrs Barton, opening wide 
her eyes. Just at moment the idea of marriage was so 
far from her thoughts it vaguely occurred to her that 
the foreigner had asked for her daughter as he might 
ask to be given a piece of bric-a-brac or a book out of 
her library. It was Mrs. Barton’s secret but fixed belief 
that all people who spoke a tongue she could not under¬ 
stand were insane, or, at any rate, were on the road to 
insanity. Volpi stood smiling, awaiting the outcome of 
the whispered conversation between Mrs. Barton and 
Agnes. 

“Madam,” said Agnes, “the Count wishes you to give 
him your daughter in marriage.” 

“He wants to marry Grace—my daughter?” said Mrs. 
Barton with as much surprise as if she had never heard 
of a marriage between an American girl and an Italian 
Count. 

“That’s what he wants.” 

“The poor little man,” murmured Mrs. Barton, gazing 
at the Count. “It must be in his blood; he is cousin to 
the little Countess’ husband and ‘he’ was all wrong in his 
mind. Poor little man!” 


CONCLUSION 


285 


Volpi nodded and smiled at this evidence of kindness 
on the part of his prospective mother-in-law; he did not 
catch the drift of her meaning and construed her look 
of compassion as a look of affection and interest. 

“Get rid of him, Agnes,” whispered Mrs. Barton. 
“Don’t stir him up; speak soothingly but get him to go 
away.” 

“Shall I say you decline the honor of his offer?” 

! “Tell him anything, Agnes, only get him to go away.” 
And Mrs. Barton re-opened “Paul Patoff”. 

“Count,” said Agnes, in very fair Italian, “Mrs. Barton 
requests me to say that she declines the honor you 
propose.” 

“Decline? Dio mio! Vat ees de objection? I am of 
de family vaire old and noble. My wife will haf de title 
noble. De American lady lofe de title noble!” 

“What does he say, Agnes?” whispered Mrs. Barton. 
“I told you not to stir him up.” 

“He says that his family is noble, that his wife will 
bear a noble title.” 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Barton. “Do get the poor 
little man to go, Agnes.” The Count began speaking 
rapidly in Italian and Mrs. Barton asked again what he 
was saying. 

“Madam, he says your daughter must marry him, as 
she has compromised herself with him—that, here in 
Italy, high society will look down on Miss Grace unless 
she marries him!” 

“But why? How has Grace compromised herself?” 

“By staying that night in the Albergo San Quirico. 
The Count says Miss Grace is irretrievably compromised 
and can heal the compromise only by marriage.” 

“Poor, crazy little man!” murmured Mrs. Barton, gaz¬ 
ing at the Count pityingly. “Since you can’t get. him 
to go, Agnes, we had better go ourselves. There is no 
telling when he might grow worse.” 

Mrs. Barton closed “Paul Patoff” and walked through 
the garden back to the hotel. As she started off, Mr. 


286 


CONCLUSION 


Gassaway looked up from his note-book and gazed at 
her retreating figure. 

“Zounds!” he muttered, ‘Til pickle this pointer for 
the G. A. N.—Illustrates Italian and American character 
—dancing Count doing the Romeo act—serene mamma 
smiles and walks away—dancing Count aghast—while 
Rhett Calhoun, American lover with no frills or non¬ 
sense about him, knocks the persimmon. At any rate 
I think he will knock it before this ancient burg sees 
another day.” 

Mr. Gassaway was not far wrong in his calculations. 
At that very moment, Rhett and Grace were strolling 
along the city wall overlooking the mountain slope and 
the fertile Tuscan valley. It was one of those miracu-i 
lously fine evenings such as one rarely sees outside of 
Italy. The sun had set, but its after-glow left a bright 
zone of light over the plain and upon the ancient walled 
city. The people of Siena thronged the plaza near the 
walls and occasionally the jingle of wagon bells and 
the laughter of peasants passing out of the gate down the 
mountain side disturbed the otherwise still summer air. 
But Rhett noticed neither the bells nor the people. His 
thoughts were of Lord Apohaqui and of the last glimpse 
he had obtained the day before, of that young nobleman. 
Rhett had returned to Grace in time to see Lord Apo¬ 
haqui walking rapidly toward Siena; and there was 
something in the very aspect of the Englishman’s back, 
something in his wild haste to flee, which did not indi¬ 
cate that triumph of triumphs—the winning of the girl 
he loved. Was it possible that Lord Apohaqui, young, 
handsome and titled, had failed? And even if he had 
failed, would that help Rhett? Where such a one as 
Lord Apohaqui had met with defeat, coiild success come 
to him, Rhett Calhoun, untitled, penniless, fame and 
fortune yet to be won? 

“At any rate,” thought Rhett, “I shall put my chances 
to the test and though I fail it will be some consolation 
to know that he is not to have her.” 

This is hardly a Christian sentiment, yet it is one 


CONCLUSION 


287 


frequently indulged in by lovers; that man is rare indeed 
who, rejected by his lady love, can find delight in seeing 
her happily mated to another. 

“Miss Grace,” said Rhett, as they sat down on the 
parapet looking out over the beautiful valley, “we are 
such old friends that I may venture U> ask a question, 
may I not?” 

“Assuredly, but I do not promise an answer until I 
know what it is.” 

“You ought to answer it.” 

“If I think it should be answered I will.” 

“Are you engaged to Lord Apohaqui?” 

“No.” 

“Thank God for that much! He asked you?” 

“You did not stipulate for two questions.” 

“But will you be generous and reply?”—appealingly. 

“It might be very ungenerous to reply. Put yourself 
in his place; suppose—I say merely suppose—he had 
asked me, would it be generous on my part to speak of 
it?” 

“Let me put the question differently. You say you are 
not already engaged to Lord Apohaqui—do you think 
you ever will be?” 

“I dp not.” 

Rhett jumped up from his seat and stood a moment 
as he gazed on the girl’s downcast face—downcast and 
burning beneath the ardor of his eyes. “Then may I 
speak for myself, Grace?” he said in a whisper. “May 
I tell you, that you are the one woman on earth that I 
love? Oh, my darling! My darling!” 

What did he see in her face, in the one shy glance 
she shot upward at him .to bring out that rapturous ex¬ 
clamation? He saw that which is given man never more 
than once in his life to see—the first look of a first love 
which tells him that she, the one woman in the world, 
is his own, his own in heart and soul! 

s{s jfs :Js jJj 

Mrs. Barton thoroughly approved of Grace’s choice. 


288 


CONCLUSION 


Rhett was a Southern gentleman who would know how 
to protect his wife from Italian Counts; moreover the 
engagement of her two daughters would necessitate their 
speedy return to Alabama and if there was one thing in 
the world Mrs. Barton fairly pined for, it was to get 
away from “crazy Europe” and return once more to a 
place where people had the good sense to speak a lan¬ 
guage she could understand. The idea of cultivating 
Miss Clara’s voice up to D was abandoned, and early in 
December after visiting Rome and Naples, the Bartons 
returned to America to prepare for the double wedding 
which was to take place in Birmingham in the Spring. 

When Count Volpi saw that there was not the slightest 
intention on the part of either Mrs. Barton or her 
daughter to accept his generous offer to “heal the com¬ 
promise”, he turned his attention to Miss Packer, and 
at last accounts that young lady was endeavoring to 
make up her mind whether she would flourish in Rome 
as an Italian Countess or whether she would shine among 
New York’s “400” as the wife of Mr. Montrose Morton. 
Both gentlemen, the titled Italian and the untitled Ameri¬ 
can, paid her persistent court, greatly to the edification 
of Mr. Green Gassaway, who spent the winter in Rome 
“pickling pointers” for his great novel. The eagle eye 
of such an author as Mr. Gassaway ranges from pole to 
pole; when the weddings in Birmingham take place, 
when the Packer comedy in Rome terminates, and when 
Lord Apohaqui recovers from his love sickness and 
returns from Montana (whither he went to kill bear and 
forget Grace Barton), Mr. Gassaway promises to survey 
those incidents and describe them to the world in the 
pages of the G. A. N. 


the end. 





















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